


Resistance is Built on Hope

by ChronicOlicity



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Got the idea off a tumblr post asking for a fic to be written, How the Rogue One band comes together during WWII, K2-SO isn't a droid but he keeps his sass, Rebelcaptain - Freeform, Rogue One ending destroyed me, WWII AU, badass Jyn Erso, spy captain Cassian Andor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-09-12 15:43:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 162,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9079141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChronicOlicity/pseuds/ChronicOlicity
Summary: Rebelcaptain WWII AU. The year is 1940, and Europe is at war. Jyn Erso keeps her head down, apart from the occasional brushes with the law. She doesn’t care about flags or countries or sides or allegiances. She’s been on her own for a good, long time, and she won’t fight for anyone except herself.So when she gets into trouble in German-occupied France, she doesn’t expect anyone’s help – least of all a so-called rescue party spearheaded by the Resistance, who break her out in order to make an offer that promises to change her life forever.Her father is a scientist working for Germany, and with his help, they have the potential and capacity to inflict untold damage using a new weapon. He needs to be found, and Captain Cassian Andor thinks she’s the one to do it.A story of Rogue One characters coming together during a world war, under different (but hopefully interesting) circumstances. Because Rebelcaptain is beautiful and that beach scene was uncalled for and I need to fix some things.





	1. An Unexpected Offer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first RebelCaptain fic and a first for Star Wars, so please be kind :) I don't think I'm the only one who went into that movie and came out sorta traumatized, so here's my way of processing that, and maybe a happier ending.  
> I got the idea for this AU from this Tumblr post: http://lafiametta.tumblr.com/post/154964727502/where-are-all-the-rebelcaptain-wwii-aus-i-need  
> Hopefully I didn't step on any toes, but since no one was writing the idea I thought I'd give it a shot.

**PART ONE: A Band of Rogues**

* * *

  **Occupied France, 1940**

 

Jyn Erso woke with the taste of rust in her mouth and a pain in her neck. She’d slipped down in her sleep, and she silently took stock of her surroundings, letting the weightlessness of the dream slip away and leave her with the sense of gravity.

Fading orange sunlight burned through the canvas stretched across the back of the rumbling truck, striping across a dozen other pairs of shoes — men, women, thankfully no children — workmen boots and tired heels and lone dirty bare feet. Some of them were asleep like she’d been, others were staring straight ahead or at the soldiers — armed, and blocking the mouth of the truck where a patch of darkening sky vanished and reappeared in time to the flapping canvas.

Jyn avoided their eyes and looked instead to the scuffed toes of her boots, just underneath her bound wrists. The road — used in the loosest sense of the word — was rough, and every few feet meant the tires encountered a bump that sent another shudder through the truck floor, bruising her bones, huffing the breath unwillingly out of her throat.

Though she highly doubted that anyone in the German High Command was particularly concerned about the transportation conditions facing undesirable persons such as herself, except that maybe they arrived in Germany still living and breathing and passably capable of slaving away in service of the German war effort.

Maybe a farm — if she was lucky. More likely a railroad or a smoky factory.

 _This_ was real.

Not the hazy dream of a village on the outskirts of Geneva, of a small white house and green grass, the hills stretching long and mysterious in the distance. Not the blurred faces of two people she barely wanted to remember, or the words they whispered to her while she slept.

Jyn half-raised her hands as though to swat at a fly, but quickly disguised the motion as adjusting the fall of her hair, brown and unruly and twisted into a knot at the back of her head. Her grimy fingers left a smudge on her cheek, but it didn’t matter.

She was Lyanna Hallique, not Jyn Erso, and what mattered was the possibility of escape — of vanishing like a perfectly-timed magic trick — to hide her hair under a cap and pretend that she wasn’t an eighteen-year-old girl on her own in the world. She’d done it a thousand times before.

She’d just made a mistake this time, and past troubles had caught up — enough to put her on the roster of people more suited for the German mainland, underneath a crushing machine or between raging coal furnaces.

Jyn pulled herself slowly back up to sit against the rails at her back, and let her head rest on the moving canvas. It was a long drive to where they were going.

She had time.

Except the truck screeched to a sudden halt, and any reassurance she might have taken from the previous thought evaporated like mist. The other passengers were looking around, some frozen and unmoving — hoping it wasn’t what they feared, a series of hasty executions in the middle of nowhere — murmuring to each other.

Different accents, some French, some not quite.

The soldiers at the back of the truck were speaking to each other in German. Jyn turned her head slightly, listening without looking like she was.

“We’re not supposed to make stops,” said Left. Young, apprehensive.

“Who knows anything these days?” said Right, with a shrug. “Maybe we are.”

She heard the crunch of boots landing on dirt, the soldier in the passenger’s seat disembarking. “Stay where you are,” he barked.

Something wasn’t right.

Jyn’s eyes flicked around her surroundings for anything she could use as a weapon, but apart from the ropes around her wrists — those on the condition of actually being severed — there wasn’t much.

Her fingers curled into fists.

Not that it mattered. All she needed was a chance.

Then two things happened at once.

The first was the ground behind the truck erupting in fire, and the second — somehow louder and more present — was a gunshot.

The soldier’s body hit the ground, and Jyn threw herself forward as a matter of instinct, ignoring the pain of having to bend low enough with her hands tied, or the other passengers erupting in blind panic. The guards leapt off the truck in a hurry, and shots peppered the air in quick succession as they fired back on whatever had stopped them.

She was crushed against a farmer from Lyon, who was bellowing along with the others. But they all abruptly fell silent when the gunfire stopped after three more shots, and more bodies hit the ground.

A shadow flickered against the canvas, and gloved hand appeared in the crack, pushing the flaps aside and admitting a cloud of black-gray smoke with it. The truck creaked from someone climbing onto the back, metal and a rifle clicking along with the movement.

“Lyanna Hallique?” said an unfamiliar voice.

Jyn felt her spine go rigid, and she lifted her head as the voice asked again. “Lyanna Hallique?”

One of the passengers whispered something, and she felt a shove on her back, sending her stumbling forward on her knees.

The canvas parted even further, and in the uneven light of the burning fires, she saw that it was a man dressed in plainclothes. No officer’s uniform. No squad. “Lyanna Hallique?” he repeated.

She nodded silently.

“How would you like to escape your present situation?” he asked, this time in English.

 _British. Anglais. British. Anglais._ The others were whispering behind her, eyeing the stranger with apprehension. She’d spoken the language alongside French since her hair was in braids, but something about it rang of a test. She was supposed to be a French prisoner, as her alias — along with her use of the language — was meant to cement beyond doubt.

Then again, she hadn’t exactly planned for the situation where a condition of her freedom hinged on breaking character for just a second.

Jyn shoved her hands out. “Much obliged,” she answered.

A knife sawed through the ropes around her wrists, but they’d barely touched the ground before Jyn shoved her elbow into his chest and slammed her knee into his side, sending him crashing into the other passengers.

She cleared his sprawled body in a single leap and bounded towards the mouth of the truck. There was another waiting at the entrance, but she braced her hands against the floor and threw herself into a skid that landed both her boots onto the man’s chest in a solid kick. He went flying, and Jyn dropped hard on her feet, stumbling a little too close to the fires. They were burning across the road in craters and billowing thick clouds of smoke, like someone had dug them into the dirt and set them off as a trap. She accidentally sucked in a mouthful of ash and coughed, her hand pressed to her nose and mouth as she whirled, looking for cover.

_Go._

She plunged into the smoke again, but an arm swung out of nowhere and caught her solidly around the middle, knocking her flat onto her back — along with all the oxygen from her lungs.

Even though her vision was watering furiously from the haze, she could make out a uniform — an officer of the _Wehrmacht_ , the German army.

Along with the click of a pistol, trained efficiently on her in a wordless warning not to move.

“I wouldn’t advise trying to escape, if I were you,” said a clipped British voice, as jarring as hearing English after months of French and German. “It would be most unwise, as I estimate the probability of your reaching civilization with no supplies or transport at a low 12%.”

There was an unmistakable sardonic tone to his voice, and Jyn felt her temper flare. She struggled to sit upright, glaring fiercely at the stranger — blond, pale, cut and chiseled like a mold wholeheartedly approved by the Third Reich. Apart from the English, which pointed to him being a spy. “What the hell is going on?” she demanded.

The German-English officer-spy looked briefly down at the ground, then back at her, as though she’d asked something perfectly obvious. “Ah, well,” he said. “I believe, Miss Hallique, that you are in the process of being rescued.”

It was her turn to be sarcastic. “Rescued,” she repeated.

He reached down and grabbed her roughly by the arm, hauling her back onto her feet. “Yes,” he said, no less sarcastic than she’d been. “ _Rescued_.”

Jyn didn’t answer, because more figures were emerging from the fog. Whatever the hell was happening — she wasn’t entirely clear on, but she _did_ know for sure that the last thing she felt was relief.

This wasn’t going to end well. For them, _or_ her.

* * *

Jyn stumbled on the uneven floor, her arm in someone else’s grip and a sack over her head.

“Mind the step,” said Officer Spy, an intentional few seconds too late.

“Thanks,” she answered.

There was movement all around her and she straightened up, conscious of a conversation stalling and an unseen number of eyes resting on her. Appraising. Suspicion was in the air like the sharp taste of rain.

A door shut with a heavy crank, iron slamming on iron, and the bag was suddenly whipped from her face, exposing her surroundings.

It was a windowless cellar lit by guttering orange bulbs, hanging naked from worn wires. The wooden table at the center of the room was circular and covered with papers that multiple people were hastily clearing away, and Officer Spy gave her a nudge towards the only open chair.

People were retreating into the shadows at the edges of the room, watching but unwilling to be watched.

“Virginie Lyra Erso,” said Officer Spy, reading from an open file. “Eighteen years of age, born in Germany but later resident of a charming village outside Geneva, followed by what appears to be a fascinating jaunt around the world in no particular order or significance. Places of residence — and criminal activity — include Poland, Morocco, France, and Great Britain, among others. Forgery of official documents, impersonating and stealing identities, smuggling, resisting capture and arrest, and general violent behavior appear to be your chosen areas of expertise on the wrong side of the law, while languages of fluency include French, German and — of course — English.”

He flipped the file shut and looked towards a corner. “She also took out two of our officers before she was taken.”

“ _Violent behavior_ was right,” came the answer, in accented English. It was light, but decidedly marked him as someone just about as native to France as Officer Spy.

Spain, she guessed. Maybe somewhere on the Southern American continent.

“Do you have anything else to say in your defence?” Officer Spy queried, in a way that suggested he was less than serious about turning it into a genuine trial.

Jyn kept staring straight ahead. She wasn’t fooled. It was a trial, and now she was being asked to confirm the rumors, the whispers, to verify what they wanted to know and subject herself to an evaluation.

She’d felt a flutter of panic — a betrayal of her nerves — at the mention of her real name, the name nobody should have known. Not in this life, anyway.

“It’s Jyn,” she said, flatly. “Not Virginie.”

“Jyn Erso,” said the voice in the shadows. “Why not _Jane_? Suits you just as well, I imagine.”

He was making fun of her now, and she just barely kept her tone free of defensiveness. “Because it’s not my name.”

“Jyn Erso it is, then,” Officer Spy said. “Miss Erso, I must apologize for the rather abrupt manner of our meeting, but times of war mean the niceties cannot always be observed.”

Jyn looked pointedly at her boots — stolen — and dusty slacks, the collared workman’s shirt belted around her waist and the threadbare jacket thrown over everything else. “Do I look like the kind of person who cares about social graces?”

“She’s right, Kay,” said Shadow Voice. “Get to the point, or she’ll kill us with her stare.”

“ _Stop it_ ,” she snapped, and spun around in the chair to glare at Officer Spy — who apparently went by the name Kay. “What is this? Are you going to shoot me, or send me on to a work camp?”

“If we were going to shoot you point-blank in the head, don’t you think we would have done it before the fire-bombs?” Kay returned, dryly. “But if you’re so keen on wasting away at a German labor camp, by all means, if you decline our offer, we’ll put you right back where we found you.”

“Offer?” she said, feeling her skin prickle with apprehension. “What offer?”

A shape emerged from the darkness, and Jyn’s eyes took in the source of her verbal antagonizer. He was…unexpected, and Jyn couldn’t quite put her finger on the reason why. Maybe he looked like someone who could be a friend — in theory, anyway, and theoretical information formed the bulk of Jyn’s views on friendship.

It wasn’t because he was handsome. Not really. Not in the carved and chiseled way that his partner Kay was, _obvious_ , easy, but there was something about his face that made it distinctive, that gave it character. That drew the eye.

Jyn felt herself retreat from the thought like she’d been burned, and made sure that when she made eye contact, it was only so he could see what she wanted him to.

Which was _not a goddamn thing_.

“Do you know who we are?” he asked, quietly.

Jyn felt another shiver creep up her skin. “No,” she lied, because a part of her didn’t want it to be true.

A smile curled the corner of his mouth, like he knew. “The Resistance,” he said. “And we want to make you an offer to join us.”

Jyn felt a smile grow on her face to mirror his, but not for the same reasons. “Why?” she said, almost a laugh. “What use could the Resistance have for someone like me?”

“Don’t pretend to be naïve, Miss Erso,” said Kay. “You know as well as we do that the only difference between your record and one of our spies is the fact that you don’t act for anything but self-interest. Politics and a greater cause is clearly not a concern for you.”

Jyn knew the words were meant to sting, and she refused to let them. Defiance was another one of her implied attributes, along with the criminal record Kay had just recited. “When you’ve lived the way I have, you'll understand that political opinions are a luxury you can’t afford.”

“Yes, why should anyone form a political opinion about the various behaviors perpetrated by Herr Hitler and his chosen command?” Kay said. “For the life of me, I can’t imagine why.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” she said. “Why not someone else? I don’t share your politics — and I certainly don’t share your allegiances. I’m sure there’s someone else like me who does. Why does the Resistance want my help?”

Kay lifted his eyes to the ceiling in visible — demonstrated — exasperation. “Cassian, I believe it’s your turn.”

 _Cassian_. Jyn’s eyes flicked over to him again, as he moved, silent, almost catlike, to stand at the table, in the light.

“Because of your father,” he said, and she went very still.

Beneath the table, her hands were in fists, twisted into the worn fabric of her slacks, because she was a child again — nine and a half, nearly ten — hiding in the tall grass with her body pressed to the trembling soil, watching her father being dragged away and her mother’s fierce shout, followed by twin gunshots that changed her world forever.

But before that, her father’s arms wrapped around her tight, and his kiss on her forehead. He’d called her _Jyn_ , not Virginie, because the name made her feel heavy, and she’d always soared on light feet, too fast sometimes even for him to catch.

He’d called her _stardust_ too, like it was their little secret — just one of many that he’d kept.

 _Jyn, whatever I do, I do it to protect you. Say you understand_.

“Galen Erso, Danish-born scientist who once worked for the German government on projects of great importance,” Cassian said, like he was reciting from memory. “He disappeared for some time, taking his wife and child with him, almost as if he — they — never existed.”

“He’s dead,” Jyn said, telling herself that it was to save them the trouble. “They killed him. They came to our house and killed him and my mother. I ran before they could take me too — because my parents knew they’d come, one day. They prepared me to run. My father is dead.”

“Except he’s not.”

It was Kay who spoke this time, because Cassian had been studying Jyn without a word, with the kind of intentness that was easier to pretend not to notice. She turned slowly to look at him. “What did you say?” she asked.

“I said ‘he’s not’,” Kay said, tapping two fingers against his temple. “As a matter of fact, Galen Erso is still very much alive.”

Jyn’s stare was unwavering, sharp as a blade, like she was digging it into his skin to make him tell her. “How do you know?”

Kay stared unflinchingly back. “Because we’ve been tracking him. He returned to Germany and resumed his old post with their scientific advancement division. In the buildup to the war, we believe that his expertise in engineering proved very useful to those in charge, and he’s been repurposed towards developing weapons to the benefit of Germany’s war machine.”

Jyn sat a little straighter in her chair, holding herself like any sign of relenting — even for a fraction of a second — would shatter her shell into a million pieces. She’d assumed; she’d been so small, scared, unwilling to believe that her world was falling apart. She’d assumed, after seeing her mother fall, that it meant her father had died too.

Double gunshots. Two bodies.

But her father was alive. Alive, and working for Germany. _Helping them_.

Her eyes fluttered shut, briefly, and when she opened them again — she was Jyn Erso, the orphan who answered to no one.

“Then you should be speaking to him — not me,” she said. “I don’t know about science, or about weapons. I just know how to rebel, for no one’s cause but my own.”

“That sounds like a luxury to me,” Cassian interjected. “But this is wartime, Jane, and we believe that you’re the only person who can reach your father, and prevent the kind of damage he could inflict on innocent people.”

 _He wouldn’t_ , she thought, when she should have reminded herself that he was dead. Because it was supposed to be easier that way.

Their eyes locked, and Jyn saw a surprising depth of understanding in someone no better than a stranger, and a two-faced spy.

“Maybe he didn’t have a choice,” Cassian said softly, and Jyn had to look away.

Kay exhaled, as though it was the punctuation at the end of a sentence. “The fact of the matter is, our superiors have given us a mission: recruit Jyn Erso for the Resistance, with the promise of freedom after the satisfactory resolution of Galen Erso’s case, or return her to meet whatever fate awaits the alias Lyanna Hallique. This might be an unsolicited opinion, but one of those options seems, by my estimation, more likely to result in your survival than the other. By 52%, in case you’re interested.”

A pause, allowing the information to sink in.

“So, what’ll it be, Miss Erso? We’re rather pressed for time, I’m afraid.”

Jyn felt a hard lump at the base of her throat, but she kept her face blank and unreadable. She’d been on the wrong side of the law for most of her life, but it all paled in comparison to what they were asking of her, though she wasn’t naïve enough to see it as anything short of an order. Escaping a second time from the transport route would be next to impossible, especially since the incident had guaranteed she would be closely watched — if not shot on sight.

She knew that working for the Resistance would be dangerous. A different kind of danger, apart from the recklessness of forging travel papers and starting a brawl in the streets. It was the kind that meant she would actively become an enemy of a nation, a subversive actor trying to destabilize them from within.

Not a civilian anymore.

An enemy soldier who would be shown no mercy.

_But._

Her father.

It was her weakness, and they — a unit made up of one stranger who thought and analyzed in mathematical probabilities, and another who spoke like he’d known her for years — knew it.

“You can find him,” Cassian said, and Jyn knew what she was going to choose. “You can find your father.”

Jyn lifted her head, and sensed both men going still in anticipation, as though — in spite of all their understanding and their calculations — there was an element of the unpredictable about her. Volatile. Uncontrollable. “Fine,” she said.

 _You have no idea_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General things:  
> I know "Jyn" is a strange name for someone to have during WWII, but it felt really weird to me to call her anything else, so I (hopefully) chose a name that could plausibly lead to the nickname "Jyn". I know, clearly I don't get the concept of an AU fic, right? :D Anyway, I'll try not to change names as far as possible - that's just my policy.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed that, and if you did, please let me know that you're interested in seeing this AU continue. I have a story plan in place, and I'd love to do it either way, but it helps to know that I'm going in a direction of general interest.  
> Comments and suggestions (like what characters you want to see) are very much appreciated.  
> Cheers :)


	2. Trust Goes Both Ways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the responses! All kind, and much appreciated. Here's chapter two :)

Her mother’s hands were shaking, fumbling with the knot holding the cord around her throat. Jyn watched the crystal on the end of the quivering string in silent fascination. She’d been allowed to play with it, but always with the unspoken understanding that it belonged to her mother, which made it all the more an object of interest. It was an unpolished thing, colorless and cloudy, shaped almost like a fang or a flower bud, depending on Jyn’s mood. But it was beautiful for its simplicity, mysterious, catching the light when it came and holding the glow in its center for longer than what should have been possible.

Now the necklace had been transferred to her neck, to rest at the base of her narrow throat. Her mother’s hands were steadier now, as though they knew they were approaching the end of an important task.

“You know what to do, don’t you?” she whispered, gently putting a hand on the crystal as though to settle it in Jyn’s possession. “You know where to go?”

Jyn nodded, trying to be calm like she’d been taught, but it didn’t stop the stab of panic when her mother wrapped her in a hug, fierce and tight. She’d clutched at her mother’s clothes, unwilling to break apart. “Trust your father, and trust me,” she said. “Trust that we’ll always be with you.”

They were at the base of the hills behind the house, grass and trees curving up to hide the sky. Jyn felt the ground shake beneath her feet, rattling, as though it was made of pieces about to come apart.

She looked up at the sky, and the crystal burned hot against her chest.

“Jyn?” her mother said. “Jyn?”

There was a crash, and Jyn snapped upright in her seat. The safety straps were taut across her chest, stopping her from lurching forward into a fall, and she exhaled — careful, controlled — until her heart stopped racing.

The crash she’d heard was probably something metal on the plane, one of the many parts, exterior and interior, that were screaming as though they were about to pull apart and plunge them all towards the ground.

Jyn squinted against the white glow streaming in from the plane window, and she unsnapped herself from the harnesses — ignoring the protests from her cold and cramped muscles — rising to look through the glass.

It was a world blanketed in white, rolling mountains and shining water beneath the same gray skies. She rested her chin on her hands and watched her breath turn to mist on the glass, silently wishing she could send her dreams away on the clouds that passed beneath the plane.

The crystal was still nestled against her throat, beneath her clothes, as close to her heart as it had been since she was nine years old.

 _Nine years later_.

She looked over her shoulder and around the plane. It was littered with strangers who’d been picked up at the same location, all of them ignoring her or dozing in their seats like she’d been just minutes before. Kay and Cassian were the only two who qualified as slightly short of strangers, also boasting a head start in the category of personal dislike, but Kay had been in the cockpit since takeoff, and Cassian was asleep in a seat to her right, his head unmoving and faced away from her.

It was as close to privacy as Jyn would ever get, and she fished the necklace out by its length of worn cord and let the pendant hang from her outstretched fingers, watching it turn slowly — dreamily — as the light and clouds and refracted snow were drawn into the heart of the white crystal.

“That’s a pretty necklace,” said Cassian, and Jyn snapped her fist shut around the crystal, hiding it against her throat. “But you don’t seem like a girl who holds onto trinkets.”

Jyn dropped the necklace back out of sight, and put her arms on the window ledge like all she’d been doing was looking out. “I don’t seem like a lot of things,” she said, and glanced at him. “Were you watching me?”

Cassian angled his face to catch the light, like a cat looking for the sun so it could stretch. “It’s my job,” he said, matter-of-factly. “And I’m good at my job.”

“Sounds like your job is occupational distrust,” she observed.

Jyn pretended she wasn’t needling him out of slightly spiteful retaliation, because she didn’t like to be watched, or spied on, or restrained.

And she was. She would be.

By him, by Kay, by whoever they sent her out to meet.

Cassian nodded slightly, as though he agreed. “Blind trust doesn’t win wars, Jane,” he said, and the intentional use of a wrong name made her prickle with irritation again. “People like me collect information and recruit for the Resistance, and we do it well for a reason.”

“Because you spy, and you watch, and you doubt,” Jyn mumbled, tracing patterns on the glass with her fingertip. “How do you expect to work with me if you can’t trust me?”

Something in Cassian’s face grew still, and serious. “Because I always carry a gun, and my orders are to shoot you if I — or Kay — believe you are a danger to the cause.”

Jyn felt herself smile, as though getting him to admit the crude contingency method was something of a victory. “Just promise me you’ll do it after I’ve had some food,” she said. “I’m _starving_.”

* * *

A blast of icy air whipped at Jyn’s hair and clothes as the bay doors lowered into the snow. She raised one arm to protect her face against the wind, swept towards them by the slowing propeller blades.

“Where are we?” she shouted over the noise, half-expecting them not to answer.

Cassian tossed a pack to Kay, who caught it without comment. “Oh dear,” he said, looking at the time. “I believe you’re already late.”

The two men grinned briefly at each other like it was an inside joke, and Jyn, silently imagining what it would be like to kick them solidly somewhere, followed them down to the tarmac. Their legs were longer and they walked like they had somewhere to be, which meant Jyn had to jog lightly to keep up.

Uniformed men — and it was all men, as far as she could tell — walked or ran past their group, clearly occupied with their training, though Jyn pulled the hood more securely over her head, hiding her hair. Stares, she could handle, but she was used to avoiding attention as the only way to survive.

There was more grass than she was expecting to see for a place affiliated with the military, broad flat plains of snow and mountains rising up towards the clouds, trees so dense and dark they looked almost black in the distance. The buildings in comparison were flat and unremarkable gray cement, and their path took them past a stretch of water, its surface shuddering under the gusts of cold air that blew in from due north.

“The lake’s rather cold this time of year,” Kay told her. “Rest assured, I have no qualms whatsoever about throwing you into it for insubordination, the likelihood of which I estimate to be 67%.”

“He means well,” Cassian said in an undertone, striding alongside her. “He’s just used to people giving up arguments with him because he uses numbers.”

Jyn narrowed her eyes slightly, not just to protect her eyes from the cold. She wasn’t fooled by Cassian’s attempt at establishing a rapport over Kay’s detached unfriendliness. He’d already admitted that he had the autonomy to shoot her once she’d outlived her use, and she’d be a fool to forget it.

Tactics and strategy, and games played on invisible chessboards. Surround her with strangers and present familiar faces, conveniently friendly, parading the possibility of companionship underneath her nose like it might induce her to spill all her secrets.

“How long will I be — here — _wherever_ this is?” she asked.

“That depends,” Kay said. “Recruits are required to learn everything from navigation, weapons assembly, demolition skills, cryptography, escape and evasion techniques, parachute jumping — basics for survival in hostile territory. Then again, most of them have a background in standard army training or none at all.”

“You’re saying I’m a special case?” Jyn said.

“I’m saying that we’ve been given the clearance to accelerate the formalities of your training, and let’s face it, _formalities_ is the polite way of describing the kind of time you’ll be wasting if we run you through the basics at the pace of normal recruits. From what I’ve heard, you’re more than capable of dismantling a car in the middle of a busy street and trading it off for parts.”

Jyn shrugged her shoulders. “It wasn’t a busy street.”

She could sense Kay rolling his eyes, along with Cassian’s quiet amusement. “Cassian will be overseeing your physical and weapons training, I will be responsible for your course in cryptography and transmissions. Between the two of us, you should be as well prepared for the field as anyone else. Any questions?”

They’d entered one of the squat gray buildings now, and were proceeding down a corridor lined with identical doors. “Just one,” Jyn said, pulling the snow-encrusted hood from her face. “Where’s my father?”

Cassian and Kay were both flanking an open door, undoubtedly the room she was meant to be staying in for the duration of her so-called accelerated training, but Jyn didn’t move. The pack she carried swung against the side of her leg, while the light layer of snow slowly melted on her clothes and boots, but she stared unwaveringly at Cassian, because he was the one who’d made the promise.

“You said I’d find him,” she said. “You promised.”

“You will,” Cassian answered, briefly touching her arm. “But first, you need to show us that you can do this.”

The challenge was clear, as though knew that she worked best in the face of a challenge.

“But not trusted,” she returned, echoing what he’d told her on the plane.

“There’s no such thing as trust here," he said bluntly. "Learn that, and your father may not be so far out of reach after all.”

Jyn moved past Cassian into the room, sparing a brief glance for the view of the lake through the frosted glass. “Maybe there is,” she said, knowing that the both of them were watching her. “But there never seems to be — because trust only works if it goes both ways.”

“Look, Cassian, the girl with the record of a street criminal wants to teach us about trust,” Kay said sarcastically. “Should I supplement your wisdom with my advice for winning Olympic races?”

Cassian didn’t take Kay up on his line of humor, and his eyes never left Jyn’s face, not when he reached for the door to pull it closed. “You should get some rest,” he said. “It’s a long day tomorrow.”

* * *

Cassian nodded his head in thanks, watching as his cup was filled with steaming tea. Kay had already taken possession of the milk jug, but Cassian made no move to pick up his drink. The Americans were better with that — coffee and fizz and sugar, things that kept you awake because they could. Tea always made him feel like he was about to be put to sleep.

“So.” General Draven circled around his desk and seated himself in a tall leather chair. “You brought the girl.”

“I prefer the term _charming murderess_ , but she’s not as charming as I thought she’d be,” Kay said matter-of-factly, raising the cup to his lips.

“She’s got a colorful record, that’s true,” the General agreed. “But she’s not the first. We’ve made good spies out of defectors and traitors before.”

“She’s different,” Kay said. “Defectors and traitors take sides. Jyn Erso doesn’t fight for anyone except Jyn Erso.”

Instead of looking discouraged, Draven seemed interested. “Can that be changed?” he asked, and Cassian stayed silent even as the General’s gaze flicked his way.

“I could hang her upside down from her ankles and prance around singing _God Save the King_ at the top of my voice,” Kay suggested, again dryly. “But I doubt it. She’s far too set in her ways.”

“You don’t have to remind me of your views, Major Kay,” Draven said, sounding almost amused by the vivid image he’d been presented. “You don’t think she’s a good fit. But I’m not the only one who thinks the benefits outweigh the risks, especially if Galen Erso is as crucial to the Germans as our intelligence suggests. The man’s a bloody genius — better than Turing, Thomson and Einstein — and unless he’s dealt with, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Well, I don’t think anyone should start speaking German just yet, General,” Kay said. “I just can’t help but think proceeding with Miss Erso in tow will only end badly, especially since she hasn’t been told that the best-case scenario for the Allies is her father’s swift termination.”

“The order’s not fixed,” Draven reminded them, sharply. “We need to assess our options with Erso before we resort to termination. We need to know if he’s likely to be turned.”

In lieu of an answer, Kay took another measured sip of tea, but Cassian — still listening in silence — knew what his partner was thinking. He probably already knew the likelihood down to the last decimal point, and in his detached, businesslike manner, had reached the conclusion that Galen Erso wasn’t likely to survive the war, one way or the other.

Draven glowered at the sunset through his office window. “Your previous instructions still stand. Jyn Erso is the best chance we have at finding Galen Erso, and after that moment, she becomes expendable. Keep her, lose her, it doesn’t matter once her father’s found.”

Cassian reached out and turned the cup around in its saucer, again pretending as though there was nothing to see.

“Understood, General. Now, I think I ought to check on Miss Erso,” Kay said, getting to his feet. “I believe she mentioned that she was in the mood to _feed_.”

Based on tone alone, it was as if Jyn was an unruly new pet that had been foisted onto him, and Cassian hastily got up as well, just in case the two ended up disagreeing. He had a feeling the General wouldn’t appreciate a new recruit splattering food all over the canteen in some kind of retaliatory warfare with the Major.

“Of course. But I’d like a moment alone with Captain Andor,” said Draven. “Thank you, Major Kay.”

If Kay was surprised, he didn’t show it. He only nodded and excused himself. The door clicked shut, and Cassian lowered himself back into the chair he’d been about to vacate.

“You’re awfully quiet today,” said Draven. “What’s the matter, boy?”

Cassian shook his head. “Erso is difficult. She won’t be easy to train.”

“You know as well as I do that training isn’t the problem for her,” Draven said gruffly. “She could snap someone’s neck and blow a hole through a moving target, no questions asked, if it was worth her while. What’s really bothering you?”

Cassian didn’t speak, but Draven knew him too well to need much of an answer. “It won’t be easy, especially since it’ll likely be you behind the rifle,” he said understandingly. “But you’ve killed for the cause before, and you know Galen Erso is dangerous.”

 _Yes, I have_ , Cassian thought, silently. _So why am I hesitating?_

“I knew your father, and your brother,” Draven said, bending slightly to look him in the eye. “They knew what had to be done. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t always noble, but by god, it was necessary. You’re cut from the same cloth, and I don’t want you to forget it.”

Cassian nodded, because it didn’t. It didn’t bother him, not in the least.

“Make her trust you.” Draven paused, weighing Cassian with one of his measured stares. “You’ve done it before.”

They both knew how it usually ended, but Cassian didn’t mention it, and neither did he. “Yes, sir,” he said.

* * *

Jyn woke early, and she knew it because she could taste the fresh sunrise, the extra chill in the air that the sun hadn’t burned off quite yet. She lay in her narrow bed, staring up at the ceiling with an arm propped behind her head. It was streaked with faint yellow, and she hooked her finger into the cord around her neck — absentminded as habit — and held the crystal up to the light.

_Where are you?_

Thinking of her parents had become something she’d shunned on instinct, like touching her skin to hot metal because she knew it would burn. Except now it wasn’t supposed to — but she still shied away from it, not used to the freedom of being able to think about her father. _Alive_.

He’d be older now, wearier, but no less brilliant, his mind as full of puzzles and stories as before. Would he recognize her, after all these years? What could they say to each other, after all this time?

“I’ll find you,” she whispered, as the crystal spun in a slow, steady circle, glowing like a star in the dawn. “I promise.”

It was a strange thing to realize, but Jyn knew it was time to get used to this — this feeling. Light and hot inside her chest, like she could run the length of a field and still be laughing by the end of it, like she could spring from the ground and fly.

 _Hope_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun, dun. Intrigue. (Ish)  
> The next chapters are going to be about her training, but I don't think I'll spend too much time on it. I mean, we all know that the fun stuff happens out in the field, don't we? ;)


	3. Not a Bad Start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! Happy 2017, and good riddance to 2016. It sucked, for various reasons that don't need stating, but here's to the new year only going onward and upward :)

“Good lord,” said Kay, over a half-finished tin mug of tea. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen another human being eat the way you just did without bursting at the seams.”

Jyn, her mouth full of scrambled eggs, tore a roll in half and held it out to Kay, mainly to irritate him, not because he might actually accept. Highly unlikely, given the scandalized look on his face.

“No, thank you,” he answered, after she maintained eye contact, chewing the whole time. “I’m full.”

Jyn smirked and used the bread as a makeshift spoon for more eggs (Kay made a faint noise, looking like he’d swallowed something decidedly unpleasant). “So,” she said, scanning the crowded canteen. “People are staring.”

“I’m surprised you noticed anything over the sound of your chewing,” he answered. “But yes, I do believe you are something of an anomaly to the recruits.”

That was indisputably true. The small table she sat at counted as the only out-of-place one in a sea of a completely male population. Jyn pushed a fork into her food and moved it around the tray. “They’ve never seen a girl before?”

“Maybe the more recently arrived recruits, but no, Miss Erso, I don’t believe they’ve seen a woman on this facility who isn’t in a nurse or a cook uniform.”

“And why’s that?” she asked. “Women do what they can — just better.”

Kay hastily turned his laugh into a hacking cough. “Yes, well, I’m not the one you should speak to about altering the Ministry’s recruitment pool. Though I do believe the female _saboteur_ can be an incredibly effective weapon against the enemy, if used in the proper way.”

“The _Ministry_ ,” Jyn repeated, latching onto the keyword like it was the first hint of what was really going on. “That’s what you call your…spy ring?”

Kay laughed again, like she’d said something funny. “Churchill’s Secret Army, the Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare… _we_ don’t call it anything, Miss Erso. The best secret weapons are the ones that don’t look like it — and rest assured, we keep that policy _very_ well here.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with recruiting women,” Jyn said, offhandedly. “So is there any way to make them stop staring?”

“I highly doubt it,” Kay said, finishing his tea. “Just go about your business, Miss Erso. Captain Andor and myself will make sure you won’t be bothered.”

Jyn raised an eyebrow, not in surprise at a so-called _kindness_ , but because it wasn’t what she’d meant. “I can handle myself, with or without you and _Captain Andor_.”

“That’s a shame,” said Cassian, from behind her, and Jyn gave an inward sigh at the nonexistent mercies of terrible timing. “I’m afraid you’ll be stuck with me all morning.”

“And instruction with me in the afternoon,” Kay said. “I can _hardly_ wait. You seem like a marvelous student, Miss Erso.”

He nodded to Cassian as he got to his feet, like it was the successful handoff of a (troublesome) package. “Good morning,” he said briskly, apparently treating it as a sufficient goodbye.

Jyn was slightly sorry to see Kay leave, mostly because he seemed easier to irritate than Cassian. Then again, the day was still young, and physical exertion had a way of wearing down one’s defences. She’d just have to see about antagonizing her temporary instructor.

“Finished?” Cassian said, eyeing her mostly empty tray. “I could hear Kay grumbling about your eating habits all the way from the barracks.”

Jyn pretended she wasn’t in a hurry, and finished the last few mouthfuls of scrambled eggs while Cassian waited by the table. Far from being fazed, he reached over and pinched the last piece of her torn breakfast roll. “How many of these have you eaten?” he asked.

Jyn shrugged. “Enough.”

Instead of looking as appalled as Kay had, he smiled. “Good,” he said. “Then you’re ready to go.”

* * *

Jyn had already noted Cassian’s ability to switch rapidly from _friendly face_ to _commanding officer_ at the first — and sometimes undetectable — sign of trouble, but now she knew that he was completely at ease with long silences, not saying a word from the moment they left the canteen together, even upon reaching the outdoors.

Not that Jyn was the loquacious type, but Cassian without Kay meant that she wouldn’t be interrupted every two sentences by a sarcastic interjection, and after some consideration — she had questions.

“So where are we?” she asked, throwing a look over her shoulder at the vast lake. “You and Kay never answered me.”

Cassian made a sound under his breath as though the question was an obvious one. “Ah, we didn’t mean to leave you curious. Kay likes to tease,” he said. “We’re near Inverness — Scotland. Far, far up on the map.”

“I _know_ where Scotland is,” Jyn said, before he could assume that she was as silly as Kay seemed to think.

“I know,” he said. “You’ve been in England before.”

Jyn sidestepped the probable attempt to steer the conversation towards her record (though why Cassian felt the need to, given all the information they already had, she had no idea), and moved on to the next item on her priorities.

Puzzling out Captain Cassian Andor.

“So you’re a Captain,” Jyn said, striding rapidly to match his longer legs. “But you’re not English, are you?”

Cassian’s smile was short-lived, but warm. “What gave me away?” he answered, nodding to more uniformed strangers as they passed. “You ask a lot of questions, Jane.”

“ _Jyn_.”

“No, I’m not English,” he said. “I was born in Mexico, I lived in Mexico for most of my life, and I never thought I’d leave it for cities on the European continent or America — not for something like this. But then again, I don’t think anyone did.”

Self-deprecating. Disarmingly forthright, for someone who worked as a spy.

“You talk like someone who’s seen a lot,” Jyn guessed. “Not your first war?”

From the brief pause, she guessed that she’d managed to surprise Cassian. “Not my first war,” he agreed. “I was in Spain when the _republicanos_ fought the _nacionales_.”

“The civil war?” Jyn almost fell behind at the unexpected answer. “But you’re so…young.”

“You’re eighteen,” he reminded her. “I was your age when I fought against the rebels.”

A hasty mental calculation put his age somewhere in the vicinity of twenty-two, give or take a year. Jyn was a little surprised, thought he seemed older — maybe because of the way he spoke, like he’d seen more than the others. Maybe she’d overestimated how easily spying came to him. Maybe there was a weakness there, a chink in the armor.

“And now you’re a rebel yourself,” she said lightly, even while the gears inside her head turned and turned.

Cassian gave her another brief smile. “Funny how these things work out, no?”

“Hilarious,” Jyn muttered, watching her breath turn silver in the cold.

“Your necklace,” Cassian said, after a few seconds’ worth of unobjectionable silence. “You were playing with it on the plane here. Who gave it to you?”

It took Jyn a second to realize that he was talking about the crystal hanging around her throat, hidden, and that of all things to be curious about, he’d alighted on something so small and insignificant.

In theory, anyway. Since no one on the outside was meant to know what the necklace meant to her, and she intended to keep it that way. Jyn _hm_ -ed under her breath, nearly a chuckle — in the absence of genuine humor. “That’s not how this works,” she said, with a toss of her head. “Just because you tell me things doesn’t mean I’m obliged to return the favor.”

Cassian half-blocked her way by walking backwards, his arms behind his back. “I didn’t know you were setting the rules,” he said, and his voice was almost playful.

Jyn looked on, unimpressed. “I’ve been alone for most of my life, so I’m used to setting my own rules. I don’t take orders, and I certainly don’t have to tell strangers anything I don’t want them to know, even if they _happen_ to be fighters for the Resistance. Or put up a good fight in Spain.”

Cassian inclined his head and fell back into step beside her, all without missing a beat. “I wouldn’t say that to anyone but me,” he said. “Even if I’m _only_ a stranger.”

The words sounded serious, but Jyn knew he was teasing her from the gleam in his eye. They slowed eventually in one of the complexes, a freezing courtyard surrounded on three sides by cement buildings identical to the one she’d spent the night in. There was already a line of recruits in the center, and she felt their curiosity over the small distance like a red-hot mark in the center of her head.

She didn’t move to fall in line. She didn’t want to, and Cassian didn’t make her.

So she stood next to him, apart from the other strangers, and waited to see what came next.

As soon as Jyn had walked in, even before she’d silently declined to stand shoulder to shoulder with the other men, she’d felt the curiosity turn to practiced derision, the familiar fallback of reacting to a woman being in the army like the rest of them. They were murmuring, laughing. Men that were built stocky and tall and solid and average, but all bigger than her and broader, a contrast that was only made increasingly plain the longer she stood in front of them.

“Is this your idea of a training exercise?” she asked, after the order to get into line never came.

Cassian pulled the gloves from his hands, cold notwithstanding, and shrugged off his jacket, dropping it onto the ground. “I’m afraid you’ll have to trust me on this one, Jane.”

“ _Jyn_.”

Again, the same smile — unexpectedly impish for someone who looked as serious as he did. “I’ll need a volunteer for this,” he said. “Would anyone like to assist me?”

There was a pause. “For what, sir?” one of them asked.

Cassian gestured at Jyn. “I’d like someone to partner up with Miss Erso to demonstrate some techniques,” he said. “Since she’ll be taking your advanced class starting today.”

That was news to Jyn, but she was more interested by the rumble of laughter that traveled through the group, the buzzing like there was a joke she wasn’t in on. Not to mention the various disbelieving looks that swept her from head to toe, like there had to be some kind of mistake.

“No takers?” Cassian sounded genuinely surprised. “Really?”

“Maybe if it was a dance partner,” jeered someone from the right.

Jyn felt her eyebrow curve again, but Cassian had already found the recruit who’d spoken up. “I think we have a volunteer,” he said, and signaled for him to step forward. “Your name?”

The recruit swaggered up to the front, with the easy — and visible — confidence that came from being one of the biggest in the group.

_Like there's some kind of pride to be found in being mostly brawn_ , Jyn thought, nastily.

“Jack Brooks, sir,” he said.

“Thank you for your contribution,” Cassian said, with the kind of politeness that verged on suspicious. To Jyn, anyway. “Now — if you please.”

Brooks only blinked at the wave of Cassian’s hand, visibly not getting the message. “Sir, what am I supposed to do with her? She’s tiny.”

Cassian lifted his shoulders, like the answer was obvious. “Fight,” he said. “Your instructor tells me this is a class in hand-to-hand techniques. So _fight_.”

“Not _that_ kind of hand-to-hand,” someone called, loudly.

“Sorry, but I think someone needs to show her how to make a fist first,” Brooks said. “And I don’t hit women.”

“So chivalry _does_ live on,” Jyn muttered, and Cassian flashed her a warning look.

“If you think a demonstration of technique requires you to teach Miss Erso how to — as you say — _make a fist_ , then by all means, do,” Cassian said, and gestured for Brooks to go ahead. “We wouldn’t want the fight to progress unevenly, do we?”

Jyn glared at him in silence, wondering if he was trying to annoy her by openly supporting the assumption that she was a ditzy civilian girl, one who’d wandered into the wrong finishing school by accident.

“So you roll your fingers together,” Brooks was saying, slow and deliberate, while the others laughed. “That there’s a fist. Why don’t you give punching a try, sweetheart? Real nice and slow, like.”

Cassian had a hand over his mouth, but when Jyn glanced at him — again in annoyance — she caught a covert wink.

Which she took to mean: _go right ahead_.

So she made a fist and punched Brooks across the jaw, sending him sprawling into the dirt at her feet. An outcome, she was pleased to note, came attached to a bleeding nose and a look of shocked pain in his tiny eyes.

"No thanks," she said, to a sudden and cavernous silence among the recruits. "I think I've got the hang of it."

Cassian stepped forward, his arms folded. "Take that as a lesson not to underestimate the people you come up against," he said, and his gaze swept the group, alighting deliberately on Brooks. "No matter how small."

His words in clear and obvious support were appreciated (albeit non-essential), but he'd staged the situation to deliberately give Jyn the chance to demonstrate — in the face of almost universal skepticism — why underestimating her was a tremendously stupid idea, and she wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it. Still, the growing smile on Cassian’s face and a silent nod of approval when their eyes locked by accident, like they had a secret, sent a thrill up Jyn's spine.

Unlike the feeling of hope earlier that morning, this one was a little bit harder to pin down. Not that it mattered.

It wouldn't happen again.

* * *

Jyn weighed a handgun in the palm of her hand. “Cheap,” she said, and let it drop back onto the table. “The firing pin jams more often than it lands a shot. Send anyone into the field with this, and you’re giving them the death sentence. The Germans make a cheap standard-issue better.”

They were in one of the interior firing ranges, a room with four sturdy walls of concrete and a series of faceless sack dummies lined up against the walls, each bearing signs of having been torn — with the kind of aim that ranged from sloppy to skilled — and sewed back up again after the fact.

“Here, try this one,” Cassian said, pulling the gun from his own belt and holding it grip-first towards her.

The loudspeaker horn at the corner of the room clicked. “Oh, don’t encourage her, Cassian,” came a disinterested drawl. “You’re spoiling the girl.”

They both ignored him. “Suppressor?” Jyn said, turning it over. The pistol was well-maintained, despite having seen some use. That was in line with Cassian’s image — meticulous to a fault, keeping his weapons in the condition he demanded of himself — precise, and always in order.

“You’ve used one before?” Cassian asked.

“Stolen some of them,” she said casually, detaching the magazine and checking the base for scuffing. “I like to know what I’m selling.”

The horn clicked again. “Were the bodies you stole them from conscious, unconscious, or stone dead?” came the question, attached to deadly sarcasm.

Cassian coughed into his hand, clearly suppressing a laugh. “You’ll need to pass tests for disassembling and assembling any weapons you’re given — English, French, even German. Using stolen guns confuses the enemy, even better than sanitized ones.”

_Click_. “ _Sanitized_ means no markings and country of origin,” Kay said, somewhat unnecessarily. “Just on the off-chance that you’re taking notes, which you most _certainly_ should be.”

“How much trouble will I be in if I shoot down that horn?” Jyn inquired.

Undeceived by her deliberate nonchalance, Cassian hastily retrieved his gun and fitted it back onto his belt. “Standard gear,” he continued, gesturing at the weapons laid out on the table. “Knife, grenade, handgun. Sometimes we get crossbows, but that depends on the mission.”

_Click_. “Let me guess, you’ve stolen those too?”

Jyn had already snatched up one of the guns when Cassian’s hand closed around her wrist and gently — but firmly — dragged it back towards her side. “Easy,” he said. “Controlling your temper’s also part of the training.”

“Lucky for _him_ ,” Jyn muttered, shooting a glare at the horn as she did.

Cassian patted her shoulder in a way that was probably meant to be reassuring. “Come on, you’ll feel better once you’ve shot something,” he said. “Time to show us what you can do.”

* * *

“I’m not entirely confident that this is one of your better ideas,” Kay said, while Cassian wound the handle on one of the winches. Three in all, and the wires were each attached to a weighted dummy set to swing at Jyn, fast. “The girl has a _gun_.”

“Do I need to explain the concept of target practice to you, Kay?” Cassian answered. “Jane can’t shoot at the targets without something to shoot _with_.”

“A rubber band and a pebble always worked quite well for my childhood compatriots,” Kay said sniffily. “What _you’re_ doing is betting our collective existence on a pane of glass and the unlikelihood that Jyn Erso will want to use this chance to put a bullet between my eyes.”

Cassian rapped on the pane of bulletproof glass, laughing again at Kay’s tendency to over-inflate his concerns. “Then maybe you should have been nicer to her,” he said. “It’s not my fault that all you two seem capable of doing is taking shots at each other.”

Kay looked offended. “It’s _wartime_ , Cassian. Would you deny me one of the few pleasures left in my life?”

Cassian shook his head in exasperation and switched on the loudspeaker. “Jane, are you ready?”

She turned towards the glass. “ _Jyn_ ,” she answered.

Kay pointed, as though it demonstrated his argument. “See? What a thoroughly unpleasant girl.”

Cassian lifted his thumb off the switch. “Kay, you know as well as I do that you only poke fun at the people you like, so unless you want me to _tell_ her that —”

“ _No_ ,” Kay said, horrified.

“—then let us finish this exercise in peace, all right?”

Kay narrowed his eyes, but the silence was answer enough. Cassian went back to the speaker. “This is to train you to shoot at moving targets,” he explained. “They’ll be coming at you fast, and on different sides, so you’ll have to think quickly.”

Jyn checked her gun again, the heavier Browning model as opposed to the streamlined pistol he used (he’d already made a mental note to get her assigned the same one). “Understood,” she said. “And tell Kay to shut up, would you?”

Cassian glanced at his friend. “She’s not wrong.”

“Whose side are you on, _really_?”

Cassian bit back another laugh, an impulse he didn’t quite remember having to fight as hard to control before Jyn had arrived at the camp. But that didn’t matter now. “Starting in three, two —”

In a single, fluid motion that took him by surprise, Jyn raised the gun to shoulder level, her legs firmly planted, eyes sharpened and ready for any sign of movement.

The file mentioned that she’d been affiliated with some of the best names in guerrilla tactics — Saul Guerra, for one — which implied a certain level of skill, but the gaps in their intelligence hadn’t specified the precise degree.

Cassian was interested in finding out.

“— _one_.”

He sent the first winch spinning, and the dummy at Jyn’s back went flying towards her. Sensing the motion, she whirled and fired two shots — one at chest-height, the other roughly where the head was, and turned easily out of its swing trajectory, firing off another one-handed shot into its back as it went. All without breaking the same measured calm.

Cassian was ready to challenge that composure, and he sent the last two going at the same time. They were on opposing sides of the room, and instead of making the mistake of firing at one after the other, Jyn dropped on one knee and sent off twin shots that severed the wires attached to the dummies. The weighted sacks spilled onto the smooth floor, and she emptied the rest of her bullets into them before looking up.

The empty magazine hit the ground, discharged from her gun.

“So,” she said, “do I pass?”

Jyn’s breathing was faster than before, and even though she was still narrow-framed and visibly tiny compared to the other agents on the base, she seemed taller to Cassian, like maybe he hadn’t been looking close enough at the start. She was different elsewhere too; there was something ineffable that crackled off her like static electricity when she was primed for a fight, something he couldn’t help but notice.

He wouldn’t get bored studying her — that he was sure of.

“I’m not sure I like this,” Kay said.

Cassian didn’t reply, because he of all people knew he couldn’t say how much he did.

* * *

Jyn reached up to adjust the flashlight between her teeth and went back to scratching with the pencil. She was wrapped in a thick coat and sitting on the steps of one of the teaching buildings, about the furthest place anyone would wander into at the time of evening when dinner smells wafted tantalizingly from the canteen. The thin and cheap yellow paper she was using for decryption practice rustled from a combination of the nighttime breeze and the use of her raised legs as a writing surface.

A bitten (and very chilled) apple sat on a napkin beside her water canteen — probably frozen stiff by now. Fruit and water for dinner, the price of not letting Kay know that she was spending extra time on his lessons.

The classroom setting didn’t help for someone like Jyn, who’d spent more time causing trouble than making any genuine effort at staying inside a school building. As her _de facto_ guardian, Saul Guerra hadn’t set much store by the detailed recitations of historical battles or dead kings, preferring instead to make sure she knew her languages, arithmetic and the useful sciences — like how to make smoke billow out of a can, for instance — rather than a more by-the-books curriculum suited for girls her age.

Unfortunately, _by-the-books_ was more or less Kay’s pseudonym, and after Jyn’s first (somewhat contentious) class, he’d already hinted three times at his intention to hold her back out of nothing more than a desire to be vindictive, if she so much as missed a point off the next test. Granted, Jyn wasn’t one to succumb to intimidation, and she knew that if she appealed to Cassian, he’d be fair. Unfortunately, it was a quality that went hand in hand with straight-laced firmness, a lack of interest in breaking any kind of rules, and being willing to return her probing questions with ones of his own.

And there was a part of her who didn’t want to _owe_ him anything. Not because she thought he might hold it over her head, but just because she didn’t want to. _Her_ , not him.

Which explained her current situation, skipping dinner and making use of the time before curfew to get some studying done, away from prying eyes. She knew she’d fall asleep in her bed if she studied anywhere in proximity to it, and the cold — while inconvenient — made sure she’d stay alert, if not entirely (as Kay would say) _chuffed_.

Jyn was just scratching the side of her head with a pencil when she heard footsteps crunching in the frozen grass. “There you are,” said a voice.

She dropped the flashlight and caught it with one hand, shining it without mercy at the person who was about to make the biggest mistake of his life if he tried to attack her.

But the person who brought an arm up to shield his eyes wasn’t one of the recruits.

“Cassian,” she said, lowering the glaring beam, but only slightly. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”

He was still blinking hard because of the light. “I know you’re not,” he said, while she seized his moment of distraction to scan him for anything objectionable. Apart from a thermos and two cups, there didn’t seem to be much in the way of gear. “I saw that no one had finished all the stew in the canteen, so you must not have had time to eat.”

The notes in her hand were too obvious to shove out of sight, and Cassian looked hard at them. “Is Kay adding extra assignments?” he asked, sounding genuinely concerned. “I thought I talked him out of it.”

Jyn shuffled her papers sheepishly. “No,” she said, shifting her arms to hide her handwriting from Cassian as he sat down beside her on the steps. “I was just doing some work on my own.”

Cassian looked a little surprised. “Oh,” he said. “Is the class giving you trouble?”

“ _No_ ,” Jyn answered, hastily. “I — just have high standards.”

She should have gone for a more believable excuse, evident in how Cassian’s forehead creased momentarily, and he rubbed a hand across his mouth like he’d been about to laugh. “Good,” he said, unscrewing the top of the thermos. “That means you can take a break for dinner.”

The smell of stew made Jyn’s insides twist in envy, and she pushed her elbows firmly against her stomach to stave off any embarrassing noises. “You don’t have to eat with me,” she said. “It’s cold out, and I’m almost done, and you’re —”

“—trying to do something nice to make up for the way I acted on the plane,” Cassian said. “I was too blunt. I’m sorry, I should have —”

“—found a nicer way to say that you’ve been given full authorization to kill me?” Jyn finished for him. “Don’t worry, I understand. You’re just following orders, soldier.”

She was still trying (out of some dogged, stubborn drive she couldn’t quite understand) to push Cassian in the other direction, but he didn’t seem to be going anywhere. On the contrary, he’d started on a cup of stew like he meant to stay there, leaving the other sitting out for her.

“I said those things to you because I’m used to being careful, but I’ve been thinking about what you told me — about trust.” He was looking at his cup, his gloved hands wrapped around the metal. “You’re right that it goes both ways, and you’re going to be with us for a while, so maybe…I should try doing things differently. Starting with this.”

Cassian looked up, waiting, expectant.

Earnestness could be faked by an experienced liar, much less a skilled Resistance officer with a record of covert activity, which was precisely Jyn’s first thought. But there was no reason for him to be in the cold with her, making amends for something he’d clearly said in his capacity as her commanding officer, not when he knew that she held identically pragmatic views on the matter of collaboration. The mission was to find her father — unrelated to the status of friendship, and whether or not they liked each other.

After a moment of silence, Jyn pushed the pencil behind her ear and reached over to pour herself some stew. “I wouldn’t make promises you can’t keep, Captain Andor,” she said mock-solemnly. “It’ll take a lot to fix that faulty trust habit of yours.”

She was taking a leaf from him and being playful, and the corner of Cassian’s eyes crinkled when he smiled.

The stew was hot and thick and better than anything she’d ever tasted — though she told herself that probably had more to do with the chill than the company. They drank in silence for a few minutes before Jyn finally gave into the part of her conscience that had been nagging at her for the last eight or so hours. “Thank you,” she said. “For this morning.”

Another thing she was learning about Cassian: he didn’t use words unnecessarily. His response was a small shake of his head, as though to say _it was nothing_ , and they both went back to looking up at the sky. They were better at being in the outdoors together, broad open spaces, like that morning on the way to her training, as though the underlying tensions and strength of their personalities needed the extra space to coexist in peace. As far as people to be sitting side by side with, saying nothing because nothing needed to be said, not really — Jyn could admit to herself that Cassian Andor wasn’t the worst companion under those circumstances.

It was a good night, high and cold and clear. Jyn hadn’t spent much time gazing at stars, being constantly on the move and hiding who she really was had left very little room for that, but in her heart of hearts, she was still Galen Erso’s daughter.

_My little stardust_ , he’d called her.

Acting on a sudden, strong impulse, Jyn reached past the folds of her coat and pulled out the necklace, allowing it to swing lightly from the frayed leather cord. The movement and the glow had already caught Cassian’s eye, and Jyn stared at it for a second too, wondering if she’d lost her mind, or if she was going soft, forgetting the principle of distance she’d built up over a near-lifetime of not knowing who to trust.

But what could it hurt?

Cassian listened to her, so maybe it was her turn to give — just a little.

“It was my mother’s,” she said, the words tumbling out like she was afraid she’d let herself stop. “My father gave it to her a year after they met, and she wore it until the day she died.”

Cassian had leaned a little closer to see the crystal, but he seemed to know better than to ask if he could touch it. “I’ve never seen a stone like it before.”

Jyn ran her fingers over the silky surface again, imagining that it had long-since been rubbed smooth by her mother doing the exact same thing. “I think my father found it and shaped it himself.”

“I can’t decide if it looks better at night or during the day,” he said, finally. “But it’s beautiful. Your father must have loved your mother very much, to give her a gift like this.”

Jyn’s throat felt suddenly tight, and her attempt at answering him only resulted in a husky, wordless sound. If Cassian noticed, he didn’t comment, and Jyn tucked the crystal away again, painstakingly careful as always, a secret piece of her heart meant to be kept close.

Another pause stretched itself into an easy silence, and Jyn watched the stars until she could feel her eyes sting from the cold, but she wanted to take them in, the millions of fiery, blazing hearts and trails of stardust too far for her to see.

“So, day one,” Cassian said, in a hushed voice. He’d leaned back, resting his weight on his elbows to get a better view of the sky.

Jyn nodded slowly at the stars. “Not a bad start at all, Captain.”

And she meant it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glad to see you guys are mostly enjoying Kay. Sometimes I wonder if I've made him a smidge too mean, but his lines are so fuuuuuun.  
> I think the trio will be shipping out soon, I don't see them staying in the training camp beyond the next chapter, so hopefully we'll get a change of scenery soon.  
> Side note: how would people feel about the appearance of a certain American smuggler called Han Solo? I mean, Europe's at war, but there's still business to be done in the gray areas.


	4. A Spot of Trouble

Cassian drew the razor blade slowly down the side of his cheek. There was no doing it quickly — not unless he wanted to risk losing an ear or an inconvenient scar — so being able to shave like this was an anomaly he reserved for times when he wasn’t being sent on a mission.

Apart from a comfortable bed, hot meals and the relative security of an army barrack, being confined to the Inverness camp for the last four weeks meant that he'd been able to slow his pace, take something of a break from the chaos and confusion of a covert operation in the heart of German power.

Which wasn't to say that he wasn’t still on assignment.

_Make her trust you. You've done it before._

Cassian cleaned the blade against the rough towel draped over his shoulder, but he hesitated, razor in hand, staring at his reflection.

There were days when he found himself unable to look past the unseen, the invisible record of kills and untruths and wrongs he’d wracked up in the name of ending a war. When all he could think was that this — _this_ was the face of a liar, a saboteur, sometimes-assassin, and now: a false friend.

Any successful mission was cause for pride, given all that the Allies were facing. But Cassian couldn't in good conscience say that he was proud of this particular service he'd done the cause. Draven wanted bi-weekly reports on Jyn's progress, not just in training (which had more or less progressed at the expected speed), but Cassian's attempts to crack the hard exterior shell that Jyn Erso had built up over a lifetime of trusting no one but herself.

Which wasn't to say that he'd been completely successful. Jyn still kept her distance, was inclined to bring her walls up at the mercurial shifts in their conversations, to shield her eyes and hide her thoughts. But Cassian knew how to read people, and ever since Jyn had told him about the crystal she wore around her neck, he'd detected a gradual, almost imperceptible change in their interactions.

She wasn't constantly trying to probe him for information, the way she had when she'd first arrived, as though he was a threat and dealing with him required as much of the upper hand as possible. She let him see moments of vulnerability: inevitable scrapes and cuts sustained from the grueling training in the mountains, and the evenings spent in his private office (loaned out for the purpose), because she wanted to work twice as hard than she ever wanted Kay to hear about.

For Jyn, that was a measure of trust. A feral animal wouldn't let another see its wounds — Cassian knew that firsthand. Battlefield instincts powered Jyn, no question about it, fight-or-flight instincts drawn even closer to the surface than anyone else he’d seen before. Dangerous and unyielding and all the more compelling for it.

More than that, Cassian was beginning to see her hunger. Not the appetite that Kay was constantly complaining about, but a kind of visceral _need_ , elemental and nearly irrepressible. Now and then he caught glimpses of it behind Jyn’s eyes, in the stubborn set of her shoulders, the flash of _something_ — like the electric shock from a fleeting, triggered memory — when she was caught by a seemingly innocuous scene.

A picture of a lone child. Two, three figures disappearing into the snow, without a backward glance. A plane taking off and vanishing into the sky. Pieces of a puzzle, and Cassian had them in his hands, but in many ways, Jyn Erso was still as much an enigma to him as she’d been the day they met.

In a way, Cassian was glad. Dismantling the mystery of Jyn Erso would mean that he’d succeeded — he’d succeeded at being Captain Andor, intelligence officer and recruitment for the Resistance. Not Cassian Andor, the person, and someone Jyn might come to see as a friend.

Then again, Cassian hadn’t been himself for a long, long time. Not since the wars, one after the other, and cause after cause that seemed to demand he chip away at the pieces of himself in service of something greater.

He flinched at a prick of pain, and realized — belatedly — that he’d cut himself on his last stroke. Running water into the sink, he pressed the towel to the nick on his chin and cleaned off the last traces of soap from his face.

While steam fogged up the small mirror mounted into the wall cabinet, Cassian washed off the straight razor and left it on the side of the sink to dry. The blade gleamed, and he smiled, darkly.

Secrets had a way of coming out, one way or the other. Maybe Jyn’s initiation gift ought to have been a razor — because he had no doubt that a cut on the chin was on the easy end of what she’d do to him if she ever discovered his mission. Mixed motives and blurred lines between genuine wants and following orders.

Like that night he’d approached her under the stars.

There was a knock on the door, and Cassian quickly twisted the tap to cut off the flow of water. “Yes?” he said.

“It’s me,” said Kay, succinct as ever. “The General wants a word.”

Cassian breathed out, slow and deep. Then he slid the towel from his shoulder and left it on the rim of the sink. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

* * *

Jyn Erso was minding her own business. They’d just reported back from a training exercise out in the hills, another few hours of trudging through muddy obstacle courses in hostile terrain with a pack strapped to her back and a gun against her belly.

Her muscles were singing with fatigue, and after cleaning out her muddy gear and setting it to dry in the habitual spot, she found a place to sit on the fringe of the exercise yard, using the time to take stock of her injuries of the day. There was a fresh scratch on the back of her hand and a half-healed scab further up her arm, hidden by her sleeve, an older one on her thigh…only a few of many she’d acquired over the last four weeks, part and parcel of running (literally) through training at almost twice the pace of most recruits.

Four weeks. Jyn reached up, running her fingers through her hair. It was damp with sweat and moisture from the trees, and would probably dislodge a treasure trove of twigs and leaves when she unfastened and unbraided it for a wash.

Jyn’s fingers knotted themselves into a fist against her head. Four weeks of nothing but working herself to exhaustion, all because she was meant to be in the field, helping to find her father. That had been the promise, the deal with the so-called Devil.

The Devil was taking his own sweet time to make good on their agreement.

There were days when the pacing beast lurking in the pit of her stomach went into hibernation. Times when Jyn felt that despite being no closer to finding her father, it didn’t hurt as much as she thought she would. It came from not minding the steady meals (with the added benefit of being hot) and the same bed to sleep in every night. Water to wash when she wanted it, not having to hear the wail of the air-raid sirens and feel the shudder of four walls around her threatening to give way…

But it came at the cost of being tied down. Being painfully aware — even more than usual — of the part of her that stayed restless, counted the passing days with impatience, who watched birds take wing with envy, watched the hawk spiral from the tree with a cry of freedom because she wanted to be in the high, clear air without anything holding her down.

 _That_ was Jyn Erso, not a recruit-in-training for a spy programme, who kept her head down and did as instructed, no agenda, in it for King and Country.

A part of her wished it could be that simple. Maybe even the ability to play the part of a daughter out of her mind with worry over where her father might be. Not a young woman with a burning desire to find the man who had loved her, but also betrayed her — who’d decided that _de facto_ abandonment of a child might be reasoned into sounding anything like protection. She loved him — still — and wanted to find him, but it would be with an inseparable kernel of bitterness in her heart, a piece she couldn’t cut away without destroying herself too.

The contradictions had been with Jyn all her life, but at least she’d been able to outrun them by staying busy, by focusing on survival.

She’d been cooped up for weeks, and now the irreconcilable differences were tearing at her from the inside.

Her thoughts were abruptly cut off by something heavy thudding into her shoulder. She looked over: a mud-caked boot.

Two shadows loomed over her. “ _Traitre_ ,” one of them said.

French, from somewhere in Brittany by the accent. She’d heard that was where Saul’s faction had taken up since the French surrender. She wondered if he knew Saul Guerra.

She wondered if he’d heard.

Jyn flicked the mud from her sleeve with her fingers, but didn’t answer. It was better — either they walked away, or escalated until they got the reaction they wanted.

“Answer him,” said the other, in English this time. “Traitor.”

A shiver of something unseen rippled through the exercise yard, more than murmurs, but like a scent only animals could catch. Blood in the air.

Jyn’s eyes traveled slowly around her environment. The others would watch, but they wouldn’t help. She didn’t know them well enough for that, and she’d preferred it that way. Fear and distance worked better, rather than wasting mutual time with the charade that they were anything but spies doing a soldier’s work.

The show with Jack Brooks — thanks to his ape-sized build and ability to whine about a broken nose — had staved off a confrontation, but an inevitable one. She’d let herself become a mystery, something to distrust, an outlier in the ranks filled with conformity. Whispers were bound to circulate, and now they knew.

Jyn got to her feet as the Frenchman took a step closer, clearly spoiling for a fight. “ _Vous êtes la fille de Galen Erso._ ”

It was an accusation, and Jyn’s hands balled themselves reflexively into fists. Same as a hundred other fights before, except for some reason, she found herself thinking about Cassian, more specifically, what he might say.

_Don’t look for trouble. That’s not why you’re here._

She gave her head a jerk, like it was to swat away a troublesome insect. This wasn’t _her_ fight, she was just along for the ride.

In the face of her stone-faced silence, the Frenchman’s mouth moved in the beginnings of a profanity, but Jyn didn’t hear him finish his insult. She was watching for the first proverbial shot, and when his arm moved, she dodged the swing of his fist, coming back up with a smile.

 _Good_. She’d been getting bored anyway.

* * *

General Draven looked up from his files when he walked in. “Ah, Cassian,” he said, gesturing to the chair. “Good.”

The room was surprisingly dark, the air close and smoky with cigar tobacco, a sign that the General had been thinking hard.

Cassian shut the door behind him, leaving only the lamp on the desk as a source of light. “You wanted to see me.”

“I did.” Draven rose to his feet. “There’s been a development in F-section. The French want a push to unify the various Resistance groups — long overdue, if you ask me — but we’re encountering some problems.”

“Saul Guerra,” Cassian guessed. “He refused.”

“And practically sent the messenger back to us in pieces.” Draven looked like he had something unpleasant in his mouth. “He’s a fanatic, and the ones that haven’t agreed to unification say they won’t unless he does. Guerra’ll be the death of all of us unless he’s brought to heel — under De Gaulle, or otherwise.”

Cassian grasped the word _otherwise_ as the first order of concern. “If we assassinate a leader of a prominent anti-German faction, we can wave any chance of a united French Resistance goodbye. None of the others will yield, and they’ll tear each other apart from the inside. Saul Guerra needs to _lead_ , not die from an assassin’s bullet.”

Draven gave him a sharp look. “Do you think I haven’t thought of that?” he snapped.

Cassian inclined his head in apology. He knew General Draven’s orderly and methodical mind, and from his point of view, there was nothing admirable about a man like Saul Guerra, who was known for his volatility as well as his harsh tactics against the enemy — a category not defined as clearly as Draven preferred.

Silently, Cassian disagreed. Defiance generated resentment from its opponents, but Saul had backed it up with enough power and influence to make sure he’d remain one of the key players on the board, whichever side ended up winning.

They couldn’t afford to lose the man, and Cassian had a feeling the General was about to lay out his strategy as to how.

Draven lowered the hand he’d been pressing against his temple. “I didn’t mean to snap at you, boy. You know what it’s like talking to these Frenchmen,” he said gruffly. “ _Organisation, unité_ …it’s like speaking Greek at the so-called _leaders._ You’d think the concept of an organized resistance has heretofore never reached French soil.”

“Like you say,” Cassian suggested, in his calmest tone of voice, “Saul Guerra is the man the undecided factions look to.”

“Correct. I assume you already know why I called you in here. I’ve been reading the progress reports, yours and Major Kay’s, and various others. The girl has done better than we could have ever hoped — and now seems a good a time as any to test those results under fire.”

“So to speak,” Cassian said, before he could quite stop himself.

Draven barked a short laugh, like he’d made a joke. “Not where you’re going. Saul Guerra’s turned Nantes into a war zone — car bombs, sabotage — they’ve put the Vichy government and the German presence on edge. Word is the Germans plan to send in reinforcements to make sure any resistance is put down, if things don’t start to change soon.”

“With all due respect, General, you seem to be betting a lot on Saul Guerra remembering a girl he hasn’t seen for years.”

“By all accounts, Guerra raised her — laid the groundwork for the soldier you’ve been training for the last month,” Draven answered. “And Miss Erso’s not exactly a forgettable presence, is she?”

Cassian carefully sidestepped the last question. “You’ve left out one thing. Jyn hasn’t been forthcoming with how she ended up separated from Guerra and his fighters, but I would guess that the separation wasn’t a pleasant one. Putting them face to face might not be the best idea — given the situation in Nantes.”

“Nevertheless, it’s a risk we’ll have to take if we’re to have a chance at winning this war,” Draven said. “You know that France is lost to us — for _good_ — without a strong underground network. There’s already talk of reprisals because of Guerra’s hand in causing German casualties. They’ll make the streets run red with French blood, and that won’t help us in the least. We can’t have in-fighting, and we can’t have Saul Guerra turning French sentiment against us.”

Cassian sat in silence, measuring his words, weighing the costs and the good that might come out of it. But even he couldn’t see any way out of the situation. Jyn was the only one within reach who had a personal connection to Saul Guerra — a man as elusive as he was difficult. He wasn’t going to listen to anyone else, if at all.

“You’re not trying to protect this girl, are you?” Draven questioned. “That’s not why she was brought here. She’s meant to face heavy fire.”

“No,” Cassian said, with a shrug. “Of course not. I was considering our options for entering the city. It’ll be on high-alert, and three new faces won’t blend in so easily.”

Draven scoffed, clearly dismissing the obstacle. “You’ve made it through worse,” he said. “Surely you have a contact somewhere who can help you out. Wasn’t there an American? The one you used to get out of Warsaw?”

Cassian paused visibly at the thought. “ _Him_?” he said.

Draven didn’t look surprised. “Why not? I read your report — experienced, impeccable French, and none too bothered by President Roosevelt’s ban on American citizens dealing in warring states. He’s perfect for the job.”

“He smuggles art out of German hands,” Cassian said, striving for neutrality despite his personal preference veering towards avoiding the smuggler altogether. “He also overcharges for F-section agents. Extravagantly.”

“We’ll pay him,” Draven said with a shrug. “What matters is whether he’ll get you into Nantes to meet with Guerra. From there on out, we have existing operatives in the city to make sure you'll get there in one piece. In theory, anyway.”

Cassian had worked with Americans before. Friendly, big presences, and incredibly keen to stress their neutrality — whether or not they had a figurative gun in their hand. This one fell slightly short in the first area, overcompensated in the second, and fluctuated in the third, depending on the factor of financial remuneration. Openly profiteering, and…arrogant. Spark and tinder, respectively.

And if Cassian was being perfectly honest with himself, none of the above factors would have bothered him as much if Jyn hadn't been coming with him on the mission. The thought gave him pause, demanded analysis and rationalization, but the General was eyeing him already, waiting for his answer. So Cassian put the matter to one side, for now.

“He’s reckless,” he said, finally. “And I’m not sure if he can be trusted.”

Draven flashed him a challenging look. “You’ve been playing the game long enough. Can _anyone_ be truly trusted?”

In the absence of anything more he _could_ say, Cassian forced a smile, acknowledging defeat. “I’ll let Jyn know.”

“Bring her to the interview room. She’s passed all the necessary tests — except mine. It’s about time I met the infamous Miss Erso.”

 _Funny_ , Cassian thought. _Jyn would say the exact same thing about you, General_.

* * *

Jyn had blood on her knuckles, but it wasn’t hers. Mostly not, anyway. She hadn’t had the time to check.

In the absence of knowing their names, she’d named them Winston and George in her head — Prime Minister and King of England, respectively. Both men who ought to have been proud of the cadets their special operations unit was churning out, even more so if she managed to knock them out of the proverbial ring.

All she needed was time.

The exercise yard had started out with ten or so bystanders, but that number had at least doubled since then, and now it felt like the arena around a gladiator match, encouragement and jeering if she cared to listen. Excitement was thin on the ground in a camp situated at the heart of the remote Scottish Highlands, and word traveled fast that Jyn Erso had gotten herself in a fight with two angry recruits.

Who were both circling her like restless lions, and her head turned from left to right, alert to see which one would move first, or — and this would be unexpectedly smart — if they had the brains to coordinate their attacks. Winston was the burlier one, and he barreled forward with his weight pushed low, meant to knock her straight off her feet. But a lifetime of fighting bigger and physically more imposing opponents had left Jyn with a veritable arsenal of tricks and maneuvers to make up for the shortfall. She was gone from her spot in a flash, rolling out of the way and behind to seize the moment where he hesitated, meeting no resistance where he’d expected a collision. Big targets tended to go off-balance easily, and it was for the aforementioned purpose that she swung a kick behind his knees. He fell backwards into the yard with a solid crash, and she moved onto George.

He came at her faster than she’d been expecting, and he slammed into her like a train car hurtling at full speed. He’d grabbed her around the middle, hauling her straight off her feet and into one of the columns flanking the square. The impact forced all the air out of her lungs in one explosive gasp, but Jyn — out of breath but still fighting — raised her elbows and drove it down towards the back of his bent neck. She knew firsthand that a blow to the neck could daze, and she continued to ram it into the same spot, over and over until his grip loosened, and she brought her knee up to crack him in the chest.

He dropped her with a strangled gasp, choking for breath, and Jyn backed into the center of the square again — winded, her sides aching, but still on her feet.

“Had enough yet?” she said breathlessly, and a shout went up from the watching crowd.

This time they both came at her, and Jyn swore the world went red for just a second. It wasn’t like shutting her eyes and experiencing a brief absence of sight, it was more like everything racing twice as fast like a film being spun too fast on a projector. Jyn ducked under arms and dove around legs, only dimly aware of her hurts and protesting bones, because all she wanted to do was make sure she left them unconscious in the dust.

She caught someone’s wrist and whipped her forearm into a throat, dropped to one knee and swept her legs sideways to knock someone straight off their feet, blocked a crushing kick to her ribs, drew her fist back to swing again —

Fingers wrapped around her forearm and jerked it back, none too gently either. “ _Jyn!_ ” someone shouted, and Jyn felt the roaring in her ears recede slightly, along with a simultaneous jolt from realizing that it wasn’t the first time her name had been called.

Cassian stared at her like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“Ca—” It was incredibly hard to find the words when her instincts had taken the pilot’s seat, and in the absence of something more concrete, Jyn wrenched her arm from his grip and half-turned towards the two cadets — one on his knees, the other still trying to get to her, only blocked by someone vaguely familiar in a command uniform.

She’d gotten free, and seeing this, the cadet tried to dodge around his roadblock for the purposes of continuing their scrap — but he dropped without warning, half-sprawled on his hands and feet with Kay’s hand digging into the join between neck and shoulder.

In Jyn’s moment of unguarded surprise, Cassian grabbed the back of her shirt and clamped his arm around her middle, hauling her backwards — disregarding protest — until they were at a safer distance away from her opponents.

“ _Jyn_ ,” he grunted, close to her ear. “That’s enough.”

It very much was _not_ , and Jyn didn’t drop her efforts to get free of his arms — now both locked around her waist, with the rest of his body mass being utilized as a dead-weight anchor. He’d clearly underestimated her strength the first time, but now it was her turn to realize that his size didn’t necessarily mean he didn’t have the ability to keep her exactly where she was.

Meanwhile, Kay looked up and around the yard, as though he couldn’t hear Winston hissing in pain beside his polished boots. “Anyone still standing in front of me in ten seconds can expect to find themselves recommended for reassignment to a _highly_ undesirable unit in His Majesty’s Armed Forces,” he said acidly. “Shall we say testing open fields for unexploded mines?”

In the face of a commanding officer’s threat, the crowd rapidly began to thin, and Jyn finally regained use of her verbal faculties.

“ _Cassian_ ,” she burst out, furiously. “I’m not d—”

Cassian didn’t seem interested in hearing the rest of her sentence. “ _Kay_ ,” he said through his teeth. “Help me with her.”

Kay whirled immediately and took Jyn’s other arm with a no-nonsense expression of firm disapproval, joining Cassian in their forced marching of her away from the scene of the fight. “That’s quite enough from you, Miss Erso,” he declared. “Any more and we’ll have to send them back to their families in pieces — which would be quite a chore to explain, seeing as they aren’t yet in enemy territory.”

She could taste blood on her upper lip from her nose, and every muscle in her body was still primed for a fight that was unequivocally _not_ finished. But Kay and Cassian weren’t cadets-in-training who didn’t know how to keep someone like her firmly restrained until disciplinary action, and Jyn’s ribs were genuinely starting to hurt.

“I can walk by myself, thanks,” she said, seething.

“That’s exactly what we’re worried about,” Cassian answered flatly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooo. So I've given Cassian a bit of a history with Han Solo in this one, and they don't necessarily like each other a whole lot, but I haven't decided yet. Thanks for adding your responses!  
> Btw, my Tumblr is my username (ChronicOlicity), come say hi if you want :)


	5. Stardust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooooo. Nice to see that a bit of action in the story is appreciated :)

“I can’t believe it,” said Kay, pacing in front of a row of lockers. “Starting a _brawl_ with two other recruits? Have you lost your mind, Miss Erso?”

Cassian silently held a wet rag out to Jyn, and she dabbed at the dried blood crusted onto her lip. Her nose didn’t hurt anymore, but she was half-hunched over because of her ribs — which were aching from being slammed into the pillar. She badly wanted to inch out of her jacket and lift up her vest to take a look, but she’d been the targeted audience for one of Kay’s disciplinary speeches before, and exposing herself — even for legitimate medical purposes — wouldn’t make him finish talking any faster.

“You won’t believe me, but they started it,” she said, and Kay raised his eyes to the ceiling.

“Young lady, it doesn’t matter _who_ started it —”

“—was I supposed to curl up in a ball and hope they’d stop kicking me?” Jyn interrupted, her arms out by her sides. “I wasn’t going to let them wring my neck just because they called me a _traitor_. Rolling over and playing dead might be what you patriots do, but it’s not for me, _thanks_.”

“Jyn, you’re not on the streets anymore,” Cassian said, speaking over Kay’s monologue of disapproval. “Defending yourself may be an acceptable instinct to have out there, but you’re in training. These are soldiers, and you should have used your head — not your fists — to deal with a situation like this.”

“ _You_ marched a massive cadet out in front of everyone and told me to punch him on my first day!” Jyn retorted. “How’s that any different from what just happened?”

Kay swung around to Cassian. “I _warned_ you about that one.”

Cassian waved him aside. “Because that _was_ different. It was a demonstration for a _purpose_ — the least destructive option out of a range of others I considered before I made a choice. What you did just now wasn’t _thinking_. It was brawling, plain and simple.”

Jyn threw the rag onto the bench and sprang to her feet. “Well, it’s what kept me alive,” she said, hissing the words into Cassian’s face. “I’m _sorry_ if I can’t forget who I am with a snap of my fingers.”

Cassian returned her glare with one of his own.

“I’m not asking you to forget who you are,” he said, in a carefully measured voice that only made her more infuriated, seeing as she was shouting. “I’m asking you to _think_ before you do something rash and impulsive, because _that_ is what’s going to keep you alive — if you ever reach the end of your training. You’ve taken care of yourself so far, before we brought you here. I don’t think that was through dumb luck, was it?”

“I’m not sure about that one,” Kay said. “She _was_ in a prisoner transport when we found her. Dumb luck’s looking rather good right now.”

Jyn rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry, I get the message — loud and clear. I’ve been here four weeks, doing exactly what you said —”

“— more like demonstrating that your only special skill is _mouthing off_ ,” Kay said, pointedly.

Jyn ignored him. “But apparently that’s not enough, because I’ll be here in this — middle of _nowhere_ — until the _great_ Captain Andor decides I’m ready to make myself useful!” she finished, and swept him a sarcastic salute. “Loud and clear, sir.”

“ _Jyn_.” Cassian looked like he was trying not to shout back. “The General wants a meeting. That’s why Kay and I were looking for you. For your final interview and psychological evaluation before you receive your first official assignment.”

Jyn hesitated, as though north had turned to south, black to white. “What?” she said. “There’s a mission?”

Kay snorted, about as casual a sound as she’d ever heard him make. “Given your behavior with those two cadets — impulsively beating the stuffing out of them in a blind rage, to be precise — I highly doubt that either of us, or the General, will continue to use present tense in that sentence with regards to you, Miss Erso.”

Jyn didn’t say anything, because she was thinking, her thoughts hurtling at a breakneck pace. No mission meant staying in the camp as a somewhat hostage — no escape, not because she couldn’t, but because it meant she’d never find her father. Or she wouldn’t get to him in time, being kept in the dark, not knowing anything —

Her pulse was hammering nauseatingly fast at the possibility of everything slipping away, and maybe she showed it, because something in her face seemed to soften Cassian’s anger. “Kay, could you give us a minute, please?” he said. “Tell the General…”

He didn’t complete the sentence, but apparently it was enough for Kay to give him a look. “You’re _joking_.”

Cassian didn’t move. Jyn could sense a fierce argument flickering between the two friends without the need for a single word, and she knew it was over when Cassian just repeated: “Please.”

Kay shook his head at Jyn like she’d chalked up another demerit in his never-ending list, and he exited the room with a curt slam of the door, clearly off to tell the General something he deeply disapproved of.

A part of her hoped it was a plausible reason to explain why she might be late for the interview.

Another part of her had a bad feeling that Cassian may have finally run out of patience.

Jyn dropped back onto the bench once Kay was out of sight, like all the wind had gone out of her sails. Between the furious sense of wrongness that Cassian of all people had pinned the blame onto her was the nagging sense that maybe — _maybe_ — she should have considered her other options. An ironic instance of hindsight, given that the reason why Jyn had been so edgy and ready for a fight was because she couldn’t take being kept in the camp for another day.

Now it seemed like she was about to see an indefinite extension to that _— because_ of said fight. Jyn twisted her fingers into the front of her hair, resisting the urge to yank.

While she stared hard at the floor, Cassian picked up the rag from where it lay on the ground and washed it out in the sink, silently, methodically, before he held it out to her. Like a peace offering. Jyn pressed it to another one of her reopened cuts, mirroring his silence, and Cassian crouched on the floor in front of the bench, so that she didn’t have to bend back to look at him.

“What happened?” he asked.

“They found out who I am,” Jyn said, in a low voice. “I don’t know how, but they did. They called me Galen Erso’s daughter.”

“And other things,” Cassian guessed. “So you fought them.”

“He swung a punch, and I fought back,” she corrected, because it felt somehow important to her that he knew she hadn’t been the one to start the fight. That she hadn’t been headstrong and impulsive and lost her temper.

Well, not _as_ headstrong and impulsive. Losing her temper was beyond even internal dispute at this point.

Cassian nodded, digesting the information in his quiet way.

“Are you going to keep me here?” she asked.

It was a long while before he answered, or maybe he just felt like it. “No,” he said, and the tightness in her chest released itself. “Galen Erso isn’t a name friendly to the people who know what it means. We should have considered the implications of letting you go without an alias more carefully.”

Jyn eyed him through her lashes, not entirely sure if it meant he was about to back her in front of everyone else.

“You can handle yourself in a tight spot, that’s for sure,” Cassian still seemed to be thinking aloud. “So that leaves the impulsiveness and the short temper for me to worry about.”

It took her a second to realize that he was talking as though he was about to be her partner during an assignment. Like it was his responsibility to watch her back, and for her to watch his.

“You’re — you’re not going to —” Jyn found herself grasping for a word that wasn’t _abandon_ , because he wouldn’t be if he left her in the camp, not really.

“I made you a promise, didn’t I?” Cassian said, getting back on his feet. “I like to keep my promises. If anything, this proves that you need me out there with you — to make sure you don’t do anything insane.”

Jyn experienced a surge of relief mingled with gratitude and warmth all in one heady rush, and she almost — _almost_ — wrapped her arms around Cassian, something absurdly out of character as it was out of place. But she wanted to do something, so she gripped his arm instead, and leaned in. “Thank you,” she said, wishing she had the words to say more.

Cassian jerked his head towards the door, not smiling, but close enough to it. “Come on. You’re already late.”

* * *

The room was starkly lit, electricity humming in the ceiling and the walls like a pulse. Jyn shifted her weight slightly, trying to find a position that wouldn’t make the rigid chair press quite so painfully against her bruises. She’d cleaned off the visible signs of dirt and blood (hers or otherwise) but she still felt a vague sense of unease. Maybe it was because she felt watched, and with good reason. The room was set up like a stage, and her audience was behind the pane of mirrored glass to her left.

She wondered if Cassian was there too, observing. The last test, not administered by him, or Kay. Out of their hands, their hard work up for inspection. She wondered if he could see her nerves, and wondered why she cared about their disappointment.

The door opened suddenly and without warning, and an unfamiliar man marched into the room like he was meant to be there. He was tall, she guessed about the same height as Kay, who towered over most of the men in the camp, with a head of rust-colored hair just starting to thin, and a face etched deeply with lines like granite exposed to the elements. “Jyn Erso,” he said brusquely, as though it sufficed as a greeting and explanation all at once.

His voice echoed slightly in the closed room.

As soon as he set foot into the space, even before she started to take him in, Jyn had wiped her face of anything except indifference, as though she was observing something vaguely intriguing from afar.

Unfazed by her silence, he laid an open folder onto the steel table between them, but his cool blue stare never left her face. “My name is General Draven, and it is at my say-so that you will be issued the authorization to enter any of our branch’s operational zones,” he said, like he was an umpire explaining the rules before a match. “You’ve passed your tests to the satisfaction of your superiors —”

Jyn felt her eyebrow raise itself slightly at the word _superiors_ , but she didn’t interrupt.

“— minor incidents of trouble notwithstanding. For all accounts and purposes, we’d be fortunate to have you assisting the cause in F-section, _but._ ”

Draven let the word hang, and folded his hands in his lap. “Why are you here?”

“Two men called Cassian Andor and James Kay abducted me from a prisoner transport truck on its way to Germany,” she said matter-of-factly, and nearly smiled, imagining Kay’s reaction behind the glass in the next room. “They told me I’d go free if I helped them.”

Draven’s expression didn’t change; clearly he wanted a serious answer. “I’ve seen your record. Escape — especially from a place like this — should have been easy for you. It was perfectly possible for you to bide your time and vanish. Why did you stay?”

Jyn wracked her brain for something more concrete. _To find my father_ was too abstract, too unconvincing. So was the functional reason of being exempted from fugitive status in at least _one_ country. Simplicity to them meant lies, and her feelings regarding Galen Erso were complex, to say the least.

It was like running the back of her fingers across rows and rows of books, each of them containing memories, thoughts, images…Jyn Erso’s life contained in an endless room collecting her past and present.

Then, suddenly and without warning, her hand encountered the weight of something different, a thought that she couldn’t fully explain, but knew was real.

“I lived in a village with my parents until I was nine,” she began. The words didn’t come easily at first, because she knew that telling the story would lay herself bare, to the kind of people she preferred to only see the constructed facade of Jyn Erso, not the reality she kept close to herself.

But she needed to be free, and that meant certain sacrifices. Jyn found herself imagining that it was Cassian sitting across from her, and she felt herself ease into a state of dreamy detachment, as though she was watching the scene from afar and telling the story.

It was a house at the foot of green hills, wet after an unseasonal fall of rain. Her mother had told her to run, but Jyn came back, keeping herself hidden — in the instinctive, guilty way a child disobeying her parent would stay out of sight — eventually crawling towards the house and peeking through the grass at what her parents were doing with the strangers who’d arrived at their doorstep.

There’d been a strange man in white, out of place for his lack of color in a village as green and lush as their home, flanked by two other strangers in black. Their faces were blurs from the distance, and there were vague shapes in their hands, long and metal and intricate, like something made from puzzle pieces put together. Jyn didn’t focus on what they were holding — or connect the shapes with the small pistol her mother cleaned every week and returned carefully to a cabinet high out of Jyn’s reach — because she was trying to hear what her parents were saying.

It was German, more difficult for her ears to pick up than French or English, and a breeze was blowing in from behind, carrying the words even further still. Her mother Lyra stood apart from the rest of the group, her bundle clutched to her chest. Her father was in the middle, between the man in white and his wife, as though he was the bridge between two banks of a river.

Jyn only started to fear her father might be swept away when her mother shouted, and suddenly the bundle dropped away, revealing a pistol — an open threat.

The shapes in the black strangers’ hands were pointed towards her mother now, and her father’s voice rose slightly, urgent and quietly fierce. The man in white said something, and moved his hand in a small gesture, a flick of contempt.

Jyn held her breath, which was how she never managed to scream when her mother fell, and her face was pressed to the dirt when the second _pop_ of a gunshot echoed in her ears.

 _Run_. _Run now._

So she had, and time had dulled the edges of the scene in her mind, but not the burning aura that surrounded the stranger in white, and his presence, linked inextricably with the end of her mother’s life and the loss of her father to the enemy.

“I was hiding in the grass, but I saw everything. I thought the Germans killed both my parents, but they just wanted my father back at work to help them. There was a man there — an officer, a captain — in white, and I think he gave the order for his men to shoot my mother.”

She lifted her eyes from the reflective steel table beneath her splayed hand. Draven was watching her, showing no signs of support or condemnation either way, but it only mattered that he was listening. “I don’t know who that man is, but he murdered my mother and took my father from me, forced him to build things — _weapons_ — to harm innocent people.”

“So you want to intervene,” Draven concluded, clipped and cool. “You want to save lives.”

Jyn turned her head slightly, not in open disagreement, but to emphasize her point. “If that man’s alive, I want to find him,” she said. “I’m going to make him answer for what he did to my family — and then I’m going to kill him.”

General Draven glanced briefly at the opaque glass, and Jyn latched onto the gesture, her instincts at their sharpest. There was something he wasn’t telling her. Maybe he knew who the stranger in white was. Maybe he knew whether or not he was alive.

Which meant that maybe, just maybe, Jyn would have the chance to end him herself.

* * *

Behind a screen of glass, the room of spectators was silent. There were other officers there with them, some instructors, others on par with General Draven in rank — all curious to see Jyn Erso for themselves. They’d been murmuring before, but now all was still, something Cassian chose to think was from being unwillingly impressed by the young girl sitting just a few feet away. Fire and grit, a self-created armor underlying a fierce determination to complete the mission, in pursuit of a goal they could all understand. Wrong, revenge, and justice.

Cassian intercepted a glance from Kay and edged his way through the crowd towards him, from where he’d been observing in the corner.

“That went well,” Kay murmured. “Who knew Miss Berserker wasn’t the cutthroat street criminal she pretends to be?”

“I did,” Cassian said quietly. “And you too.”

Kay _hmph_ -ed, but didn’t dispute the point. Cassian knew he liked Jyn, for all his irritations and the annoyance she caused him, or he wouldn’t have reacted as strongly after discovering she’d been in a fight. “And a show of human emotion too,” Kay added, under his breath. “How things _change_.”

“Not all things.” Cassian patted him lightly on the shoulder. “Out of the three of us, you’re still the machine in the group, aren’t you, Kay?”

Kay straightened his shoulders even more than they already were, puffing out his chest in response to Cassian teasing him. “And proud of it.”

Cassian smiled briefly and went back to watching the interview.

As far as he could tell, Draven looked appeased by Jyn’s answers and gave a brief nod, as though satisfying himself that they could continue on to the next stage of the interview. “Miss Erso, I’d like to conduct an exercise in word association. I say a word, and you say the first thing that comes to mind. For example, if I were to say _Officer_ , you might say —”

“— _drone_ ,” she said, and smiled.

“ _Bugger_ ,” Kay breathed, a hand over his eyes.

Cassian wanted to remind Jyn that it wasn’t a challenge, not an exam — not really, that there was no reason for her to be braced for an attack. The questions were for the purposes of understanding each agent’s motivations, what made them run, fuel or fumes, fire or just sparks.

He already knew Jyn, and she had no reason to be nervous.

In response to Jyn’s mild impertinence, Draven gave her a hard look, but she didn’t quail beneath his stare. “Let’s begin, shall we?” he said curtly. “Country.”

“None.”

“Identity.”

Jyn considered it. “Fluid.”

“Home.”

A short pause. “Shelter.”

Draven tapped his fingertips against his temple, still watching Jyn. “Gun.”

“Kill.”

“War.”

“Loss.”

“Traitor.” Draven’s voice cut.

A hint of a smile there. “Dead.”

“Scientist.”

She breathed out. “Dreamer.”

“German.”

“Danger.”

“French.”

A shorter pause. “Ambiguous.”

“Mother.”

Jyn inhaled slightly, as though she’d felt a prick of something sharp. “Fighter.”

They all knew the next question, even Jyn, but Cassian found himself almost bracing for it.

“Father,” Draven said, with an air of finality.

Jyn hesitated — visibly — and Cassian, watching from behind the glass with the others, found himself in awe of her ability to seem completely detached in one second, her eyes faraway and distant, and suddenly snap back to the present with such fierce clarity, enough to give the person across from her pause, even just a second, from realizing that they were suddenly speaking to the real her.

She’d been far away when she answered Draven’s questions, but now she was here.

“ _Father_ ,” Draven repeated, his stare hardened to twin points.

Jyn was unquestionably present now, and she returned Draven’s stare with ferocity. “Stardust,” she said, in a low voice — but by no means weak.

A thrill traveled the length of Cassian’s spine, despite not knowing what she’d meant by _stardust_ , and the mysterious association between the word and her elusive father, because he knew what mattered. That she’d passed.

She was an agent now.

* * *

Jyn’s door was open. Apart from the pile of things that weren’t really hers sitting on the stripped mattress, she could already have been gone. They’d gotten the gear to her late, probably because of the last-minute nature of the mission she hadn’t heard yet, not in full.

She was meant to hear it from her captain, whoever that was. Before, Cassian had spoken as if he already knew it was him, but Jyn didn’t want to get her hopes up. General Draven had made it clear that he was in charge, and somehow she doubted — even with her limited experience — that they were allowed to choose their teams for covert operations.

 _If_ Cassian would want her with him in the field. Kay made sense, with his logic and analysis and ability to pretend his spine had been handmade in a German factory, but Jyn was a risk as much as she had the skills to be an asset. Cassian was analytical too, and smart. Maybe the mission would point him another way, and she’d be sent elsewhere, with unfamiliar faces.

Or maybe not.

Again, she preferred not to pin her hopes too highly — it helped to limit the eventual disappointment.

Jyn looked at the clothes she’d been given for any indication as of her eventual destination. There were things meant for rough wear — similar to what she’d had when the Resistance intercepted her — and, unpleasantly, a skirt and blouse, as though she was about to walk into an office for a job. She sincerely hoped the assignment didn’t involve waitressing, though it didn’t seem unlikely, as some form of behind-the-scenes punishment for putting two cadets in the infirmary. Kay might have even suggested it.

Jyn crumpled the soft material in her hand, noting that the Resistance had even sewn French labels onto the clothes, like they were anticipating a challenge to their authenticity.

The prospect of excitement bothered her less than everything else, and Jyn quickly packed the rest of the gear into her bag, swung the strap over one shoulder, and walked out the door without a backward glance.

Time to go.

* * *

Cassian’s room was swept clean, like it had been a hundred times before, left the way he always left it before going on a mission. Even when he was around, the shelves were bare of anything except a few books, no pictures in frames, not even a locked box of letters.

It was easier that way. He kept his room in the officer’s quarters bare and impersonal, not just because he preferred it to be so, but because he never knew if he’d come back. In his experience, it seemed selfish to leave the person after him the inconvenient task of clearing a stranger’s personal effects. He’d done it for others before, ones with no next of kin or friends that they knew of, and there was always a faint twinge of guilt when he set the match to burn what was left of their memory.

As the prospective soldier killed-in-action or missing-but-presumed-dead, Cassian preferred to leave the administrative side of the matter as convenient as he possibly could, even if it was someone he genuinely liked doing the final sweep. It was a short list, comprised mainly of Kay, and he knew his friend wouldn’t mind doing it, though he’d pretend to complain. Still, Cassian liked things neat and efficient, as absurd as leaving no memory of himself would probably seem to the average bystander. It rationalized the unknown, reduced the instinctive dread humans had at the thought of death. Thinking about the things that came after helped calm him, made him feel like he was in control.

Cassian shouldered his pack, itself light and clear of anything he didn’t need for the mission. Which was getting Jyn to Saul Guerra and braving a war zone in the process, all without drawing hostile attention — German, or _collaborateur_ French.

One last thing. He checked his collar, using his fingers until he got to the hard nub concealed in the lining. It was a pill containing cyanide, capable of killing him in under ten seconds. If caught, it was always the easier way than seeing what the Germans had in store for an enemy spy — stories of their less lucky or more apprehensive comrades added weight to that assumption.

It also wouldn’t hurt — much.

He had another one with him today, and he was meant to give it to Jyn before they departed the base, along with the instructions for its (contingent) use.

The sun was bleeding red across the sky when he emerged from the officer’s barracks and made his way towards the airfield. The flights into enemy territory needed to be under the cover of darkness, which meant timing their arrival for after nightfall.

The plane they’d be flying in was small and quiet, meant for the similar purpose of avoiding detection. Cassian made his way up the open cargo bay doors and dropped his pack beneath a seat, noting that there was already one on the opposite side of the aisle.

“There you are,” Kay said, emerging from the front of the plane. “I thought you were picking up our comrade’s penchant for lateness.”

“One of these days, you’re going to have to use her real name,” Cassian warned him good-naturedly. “Can’t keep putting off the inevitable.”

Kay put a hand to his heart. “How fortunate that we are about to embark on an undercover mission, and that day is yet to come.”

Cassian snorted. “Draven briefed you?”

“Oh yes,” Kay glanced out the window at the reddish sunset. “I estimate our chances of death at a low sixty-eight percent.”

“Charming,” said a voice.

Cassian — like Kay — looked around to see that Jyn had made her way into the plane undetected. She looked somewhat surprised to see the two of them, and he realized that no one had told her about the mission — apart from its existence — much less who she was going with.

No, that wasn’t right. He’d made it sound more or less like a certainty when he spoke to her, before the interview with Draven.

Maybe Jyn hadn’t wanted to believe him quite yet.

“It looks like you’ll be saddled with me, then,” she said, with an air of someone testing uncertain ground, and it dawned on him that she hadn’t wanted to hope, in case she turned out to be mistaken.

“Cassian and I both lost the draw,” Kay answered. “I do hope you don’t have any weapons in that pack, Miss Erso. I specifically requested that they hold off on providing you with anything more lethal than a spoon.”

“You should be scared of what I can do with a spoon,” Jyn said. “But I _was_ wondering if the skirt had been your idea.”

“I’m always on a mission to civilize,” Kay said snippily, and she smiled.

Then her eyes locked with Cassian’s, and the smile became something else he couldn’t really put into words. “I wasn’t lying, you know,” he said, sensing what she was thinking. “I knew you’d be coming with me for the mission.”

Jyn took a step closer, grasping one of the straps hanging from the hull as though the plane was shaking. “I thought you’d be tired of me by now,” she said, in a low voice.

Kay had already gone back to the cockpit. “Oh, _I_ most certainly am,” he called.

Cassian gave her a slow smile behind Kay’s back, and she returned it. He leaned forward slightly when her lips parted, but never heard what she’d meant to say.

“Captain Andor.”

The General was outside the plane. “I’d like a word,” he said.

Jyn’s face went blank, and Cassian didn’t explain as he made his way past her, knowing it wasn’t necessary. Captain Andor and Cassian were different people, with different — sometimes opposing — needs and responsibilities.

Once they were outside, Cassian followed the General a short distance away, until they were out of eavesdropping range.

“I take it you and Major Kay are prepared for the mission,” said Draven, his hands folded behind his back.

“Yes, sir,” Cassian answered, well aware that it was a formality, that the General had pulled him aside for more than just a cursory check.

"Have you made contact with the smuggler?" he asked.

Cassian nodded. "He'll meet us after we land in Brittany. He’ll be in one of the towns on the outskirts — there's a bar there he likes to frequent. He also agreed on the condition that he wants payment on the spot."

Draven’s mouth twitched in a grudging smile. “He’s not a fool. That’s a strength and troublesome as hell for us.”

There was a pause, and Cassian turned his head slightly to see Jyn going through her pack, more likely than not as an excuse to try and read their lips from the distance. He turned the other way, and found General Draven watching her too.

“Interesting girl,” he said. “Troublesome too.”

“You cleared her for the mission,” Cassian reminded him.

“I did. Saul Guerra matters too much to waste time we don’t have,” Draven said. “But the interview — the man in white she spoke about — what are the odds of that?”

Cassian glanced at him sharply. “You know who she meant?”

Draven jerked his head. “Not for sure, but the person who reintegrated Galen Erso into the German science division would have had the rank, and a level of familiarity with Erso’s work from previous collaboration. That doesn’t leave many names.”

Cassian stayed silent, a part of him — the spy — wanting to probe for the information like he’d been trained to, dissect it, store it away for when it became useful. But another part of him didn’t want to add another secret to the vault, something else he’d have to lie about to her.

“Anyway,” Draven said, as though returning to the matter at hand. “That’s not the focus of your mission. I’m sure you realize that a unified Resistance will help matters considerably. Saul Guerra must be convinced, one way or another. The outcome will determine whether the girl can be trusted going forward. Watch her, and report back to me. Do you understand?”

Draven’s scrutiny normally didn’t bother Cassian, but this time, he had to force himself to maintain eye contact. “Understood, General.”

“Good. Best of luck. We’ll be monitoring your progress from here.”

Cassian saluted and walked back the way he’d come. The sun streaked across the airfield in shades of a dying fire, shadows turning blue in the twilight. Jyn looked up when he returned, and Cassian didn’t smile, his face wiped clean of emotion.

Kay gave him a nod. Beside him, the pilot who’d be flying them into France was waiting for instructions.

“Move out,” said Cassian, and the engines began to roar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, they're setting off. FINALLY. Spoiler: expect some espionage-y stuff.


	6. Mission Ready

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, they're starting the mission :)

It was a quarter-hour since they’d made the landing, and rain had been lashing at Cassian’s face for slightly less than that. He was going through the checklist in his mind — orderly and methodical in contrast to the creaking branches and tearing chaos brought to them by the weather. Parachutes, buried and hidden on the spot. Their tracks and footsteps would be taken care of by the rain, and the low visibility made it even less likely that they were being followed, if at all.

 _Luck_. They’d just barely out-raced a storm that would have sent them back the other way, all they needed was a little more to reach their stopping point for the night.

Kay was leading the short hike towards their destination, and despite the sheets of rain and sucking mud, his navigational skills remained unflappable. He’d made the trek countless times before, and the last thing a decided Englishman like him would allow was a spot of rain to derail carefully laid plans.

Cassian brought up the rear, keeping pace to make sure he didn’t lose sight of them. In front of him, Jyn’s head was hooded, bowed against the storm, and he felt a momentary — unnecessary — stab of worry at the dropping temperatures. They could twist an ankle or stumble into a bad fall in the darkness, the pouring rain didn’t give them a chill. They needed to reach the house soon.

For the mission, and safety, he reminded himself. Not just because of one person.

Jyn had been in France when they’d found her, so he doubted she needed much of an explanation as to why they weren’t trying to find a way to the road, and onward to a town or village. Curfew was worse in areas where Resistance action was active, and based off what he’d heard so far, Saul’s agents made _active_ sound like a grievous understatement. Nantes would be on lockdown past nightfall, and he wasn’t stupid enough to try and get past a security checkpoint in their current state.

There were no lights in the abandoned property, but Cassian knew they’d reached it when they stumbled into a clearing. All there was left was the short fumble for the front door, and they pushed into the welcome shelter of the old farmhouse.

“What is this?” Jyn’s teeth were chattering from the cold, and Cassian — bringing up the rear — yanked the door shut behind them and bolted it.

They were immediately plunged into darkness, not that stumbling around in the rain had been particularly illuminated, but the shutters were closed tight across all the windows, cutting off any sign of outside light and the elements. Cassian felt for his flashlight on the inside of his coat and turned it on. A wan yellow beam spilled between his fingers, streaking across wooden floorboards and a dusty kitchen.

“Safehouse,” he explained, touching her briefly on the shoulder as he passed her in the dark. “The owner fled France years ago. Our agents use houses like this all over the country to hide.”

“Cassian,” Kay said, and he turned to catch the box of matches being tossed his way.

Kay had already lit half the candles on his side of the room, and Cassian hastened to help. It was the only source of warmth they were allowed to have (smoke from a fireplace might alert watchers that the house was inhabited), and he preferred to conserve batteries for situations of genuine need.

Jyn made a noise under her breath that might have been disgruntlement, turning her head from left to right as she surveyed the room. “Even while avoiding detection in enemy territory, the Resistance still sleeps better than most of France,” she said.

“Speak for yourself,” Kay said sniffily. “This place is an absolute _mess_. When I find out the last team that used this place, I’ll have a word with their commanding officer about proper etiquette regarding communal spaces, just you wait.”

Jyn snorted. She’d untangled the sodden scarf wrapped around her hair and wrung it out by the door. “ _Rather not parachute straight into a patch of lightning_ ,” she said pointedly, eyeing Kay while water ran in rivulets from her — and their — soaking clothes. “They should hire you at the BBC. You’d make a fine weatherman.”

“Oh, shut up,” Kay answered. He was by the worn wireless radio stored in a false bookcase, adjusting the antennae to pick up the signal. “You’ll be sleeping on the floor tonight.”

Cassian caught Jyn’s brief smile as she continued to remove articles of dripping clothing. “All right?” he asked, once the soft sounds of scratching static filled the wooden room.

He hadn’t really needed to ask. Despite how cold she had to be, Jyn’s face was brighter than he’d seen in weeks, alive with the thrill of being in the field. “More fun than the crawls they made us do back at camp,” she answered. “We’re lucky we beat the storm.”

Cassian reached for the pewter candlestick. “Luck was with us tonight,” he said, and walked towards the next room.

The farmhouse was painted plaster on the exterior, overgrown with crawler vines and vegetation from a lack of regular inhabitants, but the insides were flat, low and reasonably watertight, if a little dusty. Apart from the kitchen and entryway they’d come through, there was only one more room off the side, and a barn through the back. Cassian pushed through the painted white door, leaving the candle on a dust-coated piano, pulling sheets from the furniture to set up their beds for the night.

“We’ll all have to sleep in the same room,” he said, though he didn’t get the impression that Jyn cared much, as long as there was a pillow — maybe not even then. “If it was dry, maybe the barn would be a possibility. But tonight it’s only an option if you want to drown.”

Jyn snorted, holding the candlestick he’d left to the side. She swiped a finger through the dust on the sideboard. “Kay would have made _me_ take the barn,” she corrected. “Not that I mind. I’ve had worse.”

“Prison cell?” Cassian guessed.

“Rats, and a corpse,” Jyn said detachedly. She was looking at a faded painting on the wall, something old and bleached beyond recognition. “I can sleep just about anywhere. Saul used to s—”

She caught herself, biting back the force of habit, and Cassian waited. “Saul taught you quite a bit, didn’t he?”

Jyn rubbed her dust-coated fingers together and finally wiped them on the side of her leg. “Too much,” she said, her voice suddenly low and angry. “And not enough.”

Cassian opened his mouth to say more, but Kay rapped on the doorframe. He fell silent, vaguely conscious of something almost illicit, now interrupted. “Come along now, you two. Time to discuss the plan.”

* * *

The radio was emitting snatches of what sounded like poetry, static, and scattered nonsensical bits of everyday phrases. Or that was the idea, if Jyn hadn’t been taught F-section code.

“ _Plan unchanged_ ,” she read, in Kay’s neat handwriting, one line of translation for every line of code. “ _Freelancer will rendezvous with R team, noon. Nantes top priority._ ”

“R team?” she asked. “What does _R_ stand for?”

For a second, no one answered. In response to her pointed look, Cassian rubbed a smile from his face like something had amused him. “It stands for _Rogue_ ,” he said. “Draven thought it would be appropriate, seeing as —”

“—there’s a criminal within our ranks,” Kay said shortly. “A better designator than _Salesman_ , I should say. Far more exciting.”

“I’m flattered,” Jyn answered. “I’m assuming _freelancer_ refers to the smuggler we’re meeting outside the city.”

Kay made a disparaging noise. “More like chronic opportunist,” he said. “The world’s going to hell and he makes a market for himself by smuggling other people’s treasures out of German hands. Americans have the most funny ideas about being helpful.”

 _American_. Given Kay’s Englishness and Cassian’s stiff-backed attitude towards his duties, Jyn should have guessed. But anyone Kay didn’t like was automatically someone of interest, and Jyn didn’t bother hiding her amusement.

“He’s just being funny,” Cassian said, though his tone suggested he didn’t find it remotely amusing. “I’m sure Kay prefers to know that the Rembrandts and Monets of the Paris Louvre are safe in someone’s cellar. Even if they’re American ones.”

Jyn began feeding the piece of paper to one of the candles, watching the translated code shrivel and turn to ash. “Now you’re just making me like him.”

Kay narrowed his eyes at her. “I wonder why,” he said sarcastically.

The subtext seemed to lump smuggling and street theft in the same category, and Cassian made a noise under his breath, whether directed at Jyn or Kay, she couldn’t quite tell. Maybe the both of them, to ward off a sniping battle he’d have to arbitrate. “It’s a long day tomorrow,” he said. “Better get some sleep.”

Jyn didn’t move, and stayed with her cheek on her hand, gently nudging the curls of powdery gray ash with her fingertips. She sensed Cassian and Kay’s looks, the mutual assessments of how likely it was that she might make a run for it in the night, but as a crack of thunder rang out above their heads, they seemed to decide that it wasn’t much of a risk. The door to the next room shut with a soft creak, and Jyn was alone.

In reality, Jyn wanted to ward off sleep, where her unconscious mind posed questions she avoided answering in her waking hours. She knew that if she slept now she’d dream of Saul Guerra and the past, out of an instinctive dread of facing the man, after years of feeling something that resembled hatred.

Her father. Yet not quite, never as much as she’d wanted him to be. His mind and devotion always on other, more important causes. Not raising the daughter of his dear friend.

“You abandoned me,” she whispered, because it was only meant for her ears.

Her breath made the orange candle flame twist and jump, almost guiltily, or maybe that was how hard she wanted it to be true. She stared hard at the flame, the embodiment of the hard soldier and dreamer with a will of iron. Volatile and powerful as raw flame. “You raised me, and then you abandoned me when I stopped being useful,” she said, repeating the words for herself to hear. Maybe to remind herself that she was here for the mission, and the mission alone.

Saul Guerra was never going to be the father she’d lost, and it was past time she reconciled herself to that. Jyn got to her feet and leaned over to blow out the candles, returning the room to shadow.

Then she went.

* * *

Jyn had been right to stave off sleep. It was different, sleeping on a plane or in the corner of a crowded room. Her body knew not to sleep too deeply in those settings, but she wasn’t sure if the same rules would apply now.

She lay awake on the low, hard sofa that was just long enough for her to stretch out her legs, listening to Kay and Cassian’s breathing. Kay’s was like clockwork, thankfully not a snorer, and Cassian was sometimes so quiet that she barely heard him at all. The room wasn’t big, and the cold meant that sleeping on opposite sides of the room to satisfy standards of convention that no one really gave a damn about — not really — didn’t make practical sense.

Her hair was still in a knot, and it dug into the back of her neck when she lay facing the ceiling, so Jyn turned the other way, lying on her side. Kay was on his back, looking completely unbothered on the floor, also like someone who’d wake — without protest— at the slightest sign of trouble. Nearer to her, maybe just an arm’s reach away, was Cassian. He’d turned his face into his arm, as though he didn’t want his thoughts to be shown, even in rest. One hand was out of sight, and she didn’t doubt that it was in close proximity to a gun, if not curled around the trigger.

Jyn knew because she had a hand resting around the handle of a knife, the only weapon she’d managed to sneak from camp. It was beneath the old cushion she was using as a pillow, and Jyn adjusted her grip on her weapon as she stared at his back, at an invisible point between his slowly rising and falling shoulder blades, until she closed her eyes and let herself drift.

It was a mistake.

* * *

She dreamed of the rusted ship that had taken her across a sea with Saul Guerra, her only friend left in a world that had taken her parents without reason — none she could understand, anyway. He’d stood at her side, even lifted her up so that she could see past the rails and reach for the gulls that flapped alongside the deck.

They’d lived in a hot, dusty place for a while, where Jyn’s head was constantly wrapped in a threadbare scarf that smelled of spices and dry grass and earth, but the sun still managed to blaze streaks into her dark hair. Morocco, some smaller towns and villages, traveling, moving. Saul did business shrewd and harsh, resorting to guns and knives without hesitation if things turned sour, a habit she noticed his men carried. They were feral, big cats in a world of fierce predators, and Jyn learned from them. It was the only thing she could have done.

She was ten when he first let her have a gun. Thirteen when he’d let her out into the world on his business, a tiny shape next to the towering lackeys who feared her as much as they feared Saul.

Fifteen when he walked away and left her to survive alone.

Sixteen by the time she realized he was never coming back.

She dreamed of fire, too fierce, too hot. Saul lived in the flames because he could stand it, because it was the only way he knew how to live, but after he’d burned her, all Jyn wanted was to live in the cool dark. The sun was for other people, she’d stay out of the light.

She was weightless in her dream, carried by currents she couldn’t control, not consciously. Suddenly she was in a familiar grass field, the same scene she’d witnessed and relived a thousand times before.

Except —

The gun was in her hands. The soldiers’ rifles were directed at her. Her father just a few feet away, instead of a field between them.

“Lyra, don’t,” he said, and she realized who she was in this memory.

With a flash of hate, Jyn swung the gun towards the man in white, but he wore her father’s face when she shot, and bullets ripped through her chest like fire — she fell — disintegrating — tearing away —

It was only the beginning of the bad dreams.

* * *

Cassian woke sometime in the middle of the night. It was still dark, as far as he could tell, so he wondered why. Sleeping on the floor didn’t bother him, only the absence of a weapon near his hand did. It wasn’t the knowledge of an impending mission either, he was used to worse.

So why?

Cassian sat up quietly, the blanket sliding down his front. Kay was a vague shape in the dark, and he could just make out Jyn’s small form curled up on the sofa. The coat she’d been using on top of the thin blanket had slid to the floor in the middle of the night, and Cassian picked it up as he stood, intending to return it.

It was only when he got to her side did he realize that Jyn was dreaming. She hadn’t slept easily on the plane, but this was worse. She turned on her side, then her face to her hand, fingertips stretching out across the worn cloth, then back again. Breathing shallow and fast. Sweat beaded on her upper lip, the crest of her forehead, the neck of her shirt.

Cassian remembered snatches of advice he’d heard from his mother, and later his sister. They both used to hear his bad dreams and rescue him from their clutches, waking him with a hand on his cheek, smoothing away the tears.

He was wondering what to do when Jyn turned a second time, and the loosened collar of her shirt dislodged the crystal she always kept close. The string slid out to rest on the seat beside her neck, the white crystal gleaming like a star on a moonless night.

How could a stone like that not protect its wearer from bad dreams?

Cassian was almost tempted to pick up the pendant from pure curiosity (there was something about it that felt mysterious, or maybe it owed that to its owner), but he refrained, and draped the coat over her instead.

Jyn tossed again, and Cassian made one of the few ill-thought-through decisions of his life — if impulse counted as a decision.

He gripped her shoulder. “Jyn,” he said, with a gentle shake. “Wake up.”

She didn’t, and he reached without thinking for her face. Whatever she sensed, Jyn’s eyes flew open, and she snatched his wrist before he could touch her. Only Cassian’s attention wasn’t on her fierce grip (surprisingly strong), but her other hand, and the thin knife blade currently hovering just inches from his throat.

It would have put him out of action for the rest of the mission — if not killed him outright. The only thing that saved him was his reflexes, and they both knew it. Jyn was still panting, shoulders heaving like she’d sprinted the length of Brittany and back, and Cassian realized that he’d overestimated the reserve of trust she held towards him, that she was acting out of feral instinct.

He swallowed to clear the obstruction that had risen in his throat. “Easy,” he whispered, holding up his hands to calm her. “It’s me. You were having a bad dream.”

A flicker of recognition, and the knife slipped from her open hand, sinking into the worn cushion beside her leg. Jyn dropped his wrist like it was hot coal, scrambling further away — as far as the sofa permitted, breathing hard. Cassian didn’t say anything, because he was focused on the distress in her face, the momentary lapse in the tight control she usually exerted over her privacy.

Jyn ran her hands across her damp cheeks, over her disheveled hair, and clasped the back of her neck, staring at her knees.

“This is why I sleep alone,” she said in a low voice.

Without waiting for his response, she slid from the seat and walked out of the room, leaving him staring after her.

She didn’t return.

“Cassian.”

He hadn’t realized Kay was awake too. His friend looked at him with a closed expression, and Cassian knew what he was about to hear. “Be careful,” Kay warned, and turned away.

There was nothing else left to say.

Cassian stared at the narrow crack left between door and frame; Jyn hadn’t pulled it shut on her way out, left it to swing closed. He stared until his eyes began to hurt, then he got up and followed.

This time he made sure to close the door.

* * *

Jyn shivered in the bare wooden chair, her feet curled up on the seat with her, the necklace cupped between her palms. It was cold in the kitchen, colder than the rest of the unheated house, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to go back into the next room.

She told herself that it was nothing to do with Cassian. Because it _had_ nothing to do with him. Knowing him, the gesture had been well-intentioned, that his way of helping a friend suffering from nightmares was to wake them. She wasn’t surprised that he was leaving her alone, since most people — not even spy captains — could really expect a near-knife wound to the throat for their trouble.

Jyn chafed at the crystal, rolling it between her icy palms. It had been there since the plane ride, the defensiveness she’d repressed during her training, but now alive and back to top operating form because of Saul Guerra.

Even though she was absorbed in her thoughts, her senses were so jumpy that she looked up when a draft made the candle flame in front of her flicker.

Cassian was standing in front of the closed door, and she watched him like a wary animal as he walked up to the kitchen table and pulled a chair out for himself, not saying a word until he was seated at her side.

“Is it always this bad?” he asked.

Jyn lifted one shoulder. “Everyone has old friends. The bad dreams are mine.”

Cassian inclined his head. “I’m sorry for startling you. I had nightmares when I was younger, and my mother, my sister — they used to wake me from my sleep whenever it happened.”

Jyn tried to picture a younger Cassian, one with a smooth face, an easy, wide smile and less secrets in his eyes, but found that she couldn’t. No less than she could imagine a Jyn Erso who’d let herself be comforted by anyone, against the instinct she’d trained herself never to rely on.

Comfort came from herself, and no one else. Not Saul Guerra, more General than foster father, and her parents — ghosts, and pieces of fragmented memory.

Not Cassian Andor.

In the face of her silence, Cassian leaned over and dug through one of the packs they’d brought until he found something that rattled. Jyn looked up to find him pushing a flask to the center of the table. “We can’t risk starting a fire,” he said. “So there’s no tea.”

It was like he was used to the complaint, and Jyn didn’t need three guesses to hit on the disgruntled party as Kay, the quintessential Englishman. A reluctant smile crept onto her face, and she unscrewed the top of the flask. Brandy fumes drifted out from the opening, and Jyn lifted it to her lips, feeling the spirit sear its way down her throat and into her stomach.

“I’ve always hated tea,” she said, her voice slightly husky.

Cassian reached for the flask and took a sip, very nearly smiling too. “So have I.”

Jyn widened her eyes in warning. “Don’t let Kay hear you say that. He’ll decide to leave you to my evil influences.”

Cassian looked down at his hands, gently swirling the flask he held. “Doesn’t sound that bad to me.”

She didn’t know what to say to it, and he pushed the brandy towards her again. It was nothing to the kind of drinking she’d experienced around Saul’s garrison, but then again, she hadn’t really been drinking with friends.

 _A_ friend.

“I’m sorry there wasn’t time to prepare you,” Cassian said, sensing that her thoughts had strayed into the subject of the mission. “I know things didn’t end on the best of terms between you and Saul.”

Sometimes Cassian had a way of talking as if the person he was speaking to had told him everything there was to know about themselves, as if they’d discussed any and all subjects under the sun. Sometimes it was almost too easy to nod and agree, to let it be true, but Jyn’s guard was always alert to it — especially over something that cut as close as Saul.

“No, you don’t know,” she said quietly. “You’ll never understand a man like Saul Guerra.”

There was a pause, and she wondered if she’d hurt Cassian with her rebuff. Jyn, still nursing an unhealed wound in her heart, couldn’t quite bring herself to apologize for her defensiveness.

She should have known better. “I suppose it’s lucky we have you here, then,” Cassian said, easily.

Jyn looked at him, saying nothing, then she nodded. “You’ll get your meeting with Saul Guerra,” she said, thinking of the countless others who’d wished for the same thing, and later regretted it.

A small, bitter smile curled her lips. “Just make sure you can live with the consequences.”

* * *

_My name is Lyra Jeanne Moreau. I am nineteen years old, and I was born in Marseille, to Christian and Jeanne Moreau. They live on Rue de Paradis. I have no brothers or sisters. I went to school in Lycée Saint-Charles. I am here visiting Châteaubriant with Luc Augustin, an old family friend. We will only be staying for the day._

There was a soft thump from the next room, and Jyn paused in her silent recitation of the cover story to look reflexively at the door. The men were awake and getting ready, just as she was. After a second, she went back to what she’d been doing.

Cassian’s bag lay open on the table in front of her, thoroughly rifled through in the absence of verbal permission. The contents were assorted but predictably reliable, like he had catalogued each scenario according to probability and prepared accordingly. Jyn looked past the disassembled Sten guns (light but hard to conceal) and the corresponding ammunition, noting — for some reason — that there wasn’t anything that might remotely be construed as personal, not even in a side pocket.

Not even a faded picture.

But that was neither here nor there. Jyn had found a thin leather strap amongst the gear and a sheath meant for a knife, and she was currently in the process of securing it to her leg. The mission brief put the odds of close-quarter combat (or combat at all, for that matter) at _low_ , but having a weapon on her was a source of comfort. Especially since she was about to walk into enemy territory in a skirt.

If it were up to her, she’d walk into the out-of-the-way French town wearing her slacks and loose shirt, but the one thing Resistance agents were meant _never_ to do was draw attention, and even Jyn couldn’t use her stubbornness to justify exposing her cover. If Kay didn’t shoot her for insubordination first.

Cold water dripped onto Jyn’s bare knee, sliding soundlessly from her damp hair. She’d washed the twigs and leaves out from the rough parachute landing using a basin of ice water that smelled like woody air and carried a metallic tang of rust from old pipes. It spilled loosely past her cheeks now, a dark, _dark_ brown and came down to just below her shoulders, unevenly curly and slightly bushy even at the best of times. It was heavy by default, and Jyn brushed it impatiently behind one ear. The strap was meant for someone with thicker legs than her — and probably encased in a paratrooper’s uniform — which meant a small struggle to stop it from sliding down to her knee.

The door opened suddenly and without warning, but Jyn didn’t look up.

“Oh _really_ , Miss Erso,” Kay sighed.

The both of them had clearly adjusted their appearances to fit the local bill, something clearly done countless times before. Cassian’s hair was pushed back in contrast to what he usually did, and he looked casual but not enough to be noticeably untidy, loose slacks and a simple shirt.

It was the first time she’d seen him in anything but combat fatigues, and it occurred to her that seeing her loose-haired and in normal clothes was a first for him too. She noted that his eyes didn’t wander, and that he stayed relatively blank-faced in contrast to Kay’s blatant disapproval. “It’s just a leg,” she said, in response to Kay’s complaint.

“ _Just a leg_ ,” Kay echoed, shaking his head, eyes pinned firmly to a point above her head. “Does anyone else hear the shrieking, cacophonous disintegration of proper manners and minimum decency, or is it my ears acting up again?”

Jyn finished securing the strap and started to reach for the knife she’d taken from Cassian’s pack, but he was faster. The knife she’d left behind was still with him, and he held it out — blade first. “You left this,” he said.

She took his lack of comment regarding her pilfering of his pack as tacit approval, slid the blade through the sheath, and let the folds of her skirt fall forward to hide the weapon. All done. Cassian gave a small nod.

Kay folded his arms. “And how exactly is a proper young lady such as yourself meant to reach that?”

Jyn set her foot back on the floor, totally unconcerned. “Quickly,” she answered.

Kay looked at Cassian, like it was his doing. “I hope you know the chances of us being caught and shot for espionage,” he said, as the latter prepared to leave. “It’s _high_.”

* * *

Lyra Moreau and Luc Augustin strolled at a leisurely pace through the town square of Châteaubriant, shoes tapping on the cobblestones beneath their feet, her hand resting in the crook of his arm while they walked. The sun shone over their heads in defiance of the storm that came the night before, and there were market stalls set up around the central fountain, bustle and noise as though there was no war — though a closer examination of the goods revealed gaps where shortages had taken their toll.

Cassian had spent the first ten minutes of their entry into the town making sure that Jyn was adjusting well to the demands of the mission. She’d passed the field exams for undercover work, and she’d been living in France since before they’d brought her in, but there was a part of him that thought Jyn defied the kind of repression — a self-imposed plainness — that agents were meant to adopt to stay out of sight. There was just something about her that seemed the antithesis of that, a fire that burned too bright to be smothered.

But there she was, holding his arm as Lyra Moreau, wearing clothes he’d never seen on her before, _normal_ clothes a girl her age might wear, with her hair — which he’d never seen loose — stirring gently in the breeze. It was a strange sight, seeing the visual proof that the Jyn Erso who preferred anything that made close-quarters combat more convenient (down to clothes, mannerisms and weapons), who could disarm and incapacitate two cadets twice her size, could also look like a young woman with no secrets to hide.

For once, she looked her age. Not older than she should have been, but eighteen and so — _young_.

All of this should have made her a stranger to him — this new, never-before-seen Jyn Erso — were it not for the fact that the look on her face, the stubborn set to her mouth…it was a challenge and a purpose.

Cassian knew she was going to be fine.

Kay was invisible in the morning crowd, but Cassian wasn’t worried. It would look suspicious for all three of them to be walking together. A couple and a pedestrian as separate units attracted less attention, and Kay knew where the rendezvous point was.

They had a meeting at noon, but it also couldn’t look like they were going somewhere. Jyn knew it without being told, and she dawdled by stalls as any normal visitor would, picking up odd things here and there and holding them out like she wanted to show him. Cassian played along, but the bulk of his attention was on their surroundings, on the dozens of tiny conversations they overheard in snatches as they passed. There was an Officer Schultz rumored to be up for a promotion next month. A _mademoiselle Valerie_ was said to be collaborating with the Gestapo. A local bookseller had vanished from his shop during the night. There —

“They’re talking about a new shipment of hostages,” Jyn said, in French and in an undertone. “There’s a prison camp near the town. The people came from Nantes — the Germans are going to shoot them as reprisals if Saul isn’t put under control.”

Her low voice was almost lost in the sound of the rushing fountain, and it took Cassian a moment to detach from his eavesdropping, the pace of his thoughts trying to distill the waves of static into isolated threads of usable information. In spite of it, he saw the strange, closed look on Jyn’s face and made a guess at what she was thinking. “That’s not why we’re here,” he said. “I’m sorry, but it’s not.”

Her grip tightened around his arm. “The reason why they’re taking people from Nantes is because Saul’s causing trouble,” she answered, in a hard voice that made it perfectly clear she wasn’t going to make things easy for him. “Doesn’t seem that far from the agenda to me.”

“And if we succeed in persuading Saul to change his approach, we’d be helping the hostages,” Cassian reasoned.

Jyn squinted into the sunlight, her hand raised to cover her eyes. “We both know that’s not true. It’s too late for those people once they’re inside the camp.”

Cassian studied her in the silence that ensued, trying to decide how to answer. His experience in intelligence gathering and interacting with difficult contacts were coming into play. There was cajoling, gentle — but meaningless — reassurances to instill false hope as a controlling element, and as a last resort, abandoning them altogether. Just a body in an alley. A body floating downstream, disappearing into the rush of the canal.

But Jyn would never accept any of it, and against those instincts, he wished he had something better for her, he genuinely did. A justification, or maybe an assent that would take away the guilt, but he had his orders. They all did.

“We can’t divert from the mission. I’m sorry.”

Jyn didn’t look surprised, or disappointed. Just blank, shutting him out from her thoughts. With a soft exhale that escaped between her slightly parted lips, she lifted her head to look at the banners hanging from the town hall; red, white and black fluttering where the French flag used to hang in the morning light. “I wonder where I’ve heard that before,” she said in a low voice.

Cassian wondered if it was a studied injury, inflicted with cool precision, or Jyn just had an uncanny instinct as to how she could hurt him. But the last thing they needed to do was start an argument in the middle of a street, so he shook his head and pulled her further from the stalls. “The place is just up ahead,” he said, pretending they hadn’t spoken about it at all. “He’ll be in there.”

The painted green door opened to a haze of cigarette smoke and the pungent smells of a drinking establishment open for business. Cassian hesitated at the doorway, and turned back to her.

“Maybe you should wait here,” he said.

Jyn paused. “Why? It’ll look suspicious.”

There was a shout of raucous laughter and the clatter of something breaking from inside the bar, but Jyn didn’t even flinch. It occurred to him that whatever explanation he came up with would probably fall flat, seeing as Jyn had likely burned down or beaten up people in worse places than a seedy bar.

“Is this about your contact?” she asked.

It was, but not for the reasons she thought. “He’s…difficult,” Cassian said.

Jyn raised an eyebrow, undaunted. “So am I. Maybe we’ll get along.”

 _A little too well_ , Cassian thought. Which was the main concern. Jyn’s allegiances were by no means steady, and he was concerned that too close a glimpse into the kind of freedom she was missing as an agent — it might compromise her commitment to helping them find and convince Saul Guerra.

So he tried again. “Women don’t usually go into places like this.”

Jyn’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she moved closer. Cassian stiffened, braced for some kind of blow, but she stood on her toes and learned into him like she was whispering something in his ear. Her hand was surprisingly small, curled against the base of his neck, and she laughed at nothing, all part of the act — a show for whoever might be watching.

“Maybe we’re just different,” she whispered, and pulled him inside.

Cassian was aware of his pulse — how fast it was — and he told himself that it was because of their surroundings. The place was rowdy even at the best of times, where everyone seemed to live like it was the end of the world, and then some. His eyes took a second to adjust to the dimmer light, suspended amber from the ceiling, and he glanced over his shoulder at Jyn — who wore a reliably unfazed expression at the chaos — before beginning to make his way towards the back. The man behind the bar gave no sign of recognition at their entry and continued to polish glasses, murmuring every now and then to the dejected-looking customers sitting in front of him with half-empty drinks.

“Charming,” Jyn said, as a woman in a somewhat incomplete form of dress whispered past with a tray full of glasses. “A little early for cabaret, isn’t it?”

Cassian gave her a look. “I didn’t choose the place. At least we won’t be overheard here.”

Jyn sidestepped to avoid a drunk customer stumbling towards the toilets. “What you’re saying is, everyone — German, French, or otherwise — has other things on their mind.”

Cassian smiled briefly, not thinking about the way her cheek had felt pressed to his. “Something like that.”

There was a curtain made from strands of beads, and he pushed through them, his irritation already beginning to stir at the drawn-out process of meeting a contact. For someone doing illegal work, the man set himself up as though he was an obscure sage of wisdom in a distant cave, and Cassian disliked wasting time.

The back room was scattered with small round booths meant for familiar customers, too thick with a fog of cigarette and cigar smoke for their inhabitants to be fully identifiable. An old piano clinked away somewhere further in, but Cassian was trying to find a familiar face.

“Where is he?” Jyn asked.

Cassian was about to answer when he heard the shuffle of a deck of cards, and the crackle of a cigarette. “About time,” drawled a voice. “I was starting to think you weren’t gonna show.”

“Old habits,” Cassian muttered, turning in the direction of what he’d heard.

The cloud of smoke cleared away, and Han Solo leaned forward to grin at them, a cigarette between his teeth. “Sit down,” he said. “We've got a lot to discuss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not to spoil anything, but I have the next two chapters written up and things are gonna EXPLODE. I'm so freaking excited to share!


	7. The Pilot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a bit of a wait, but here he is :)

Strange things were happening in the mountain. Pilot Rook kept his head down and continued to walk. Loading and unloading typically wasn’t the job of the pilot, but he was aware of the lower status he’d been designated (people born outside of Germany always were), and the soldiers — tall and broad-shouldered and menacing like the boys who used to kick him in the schoolyard — preferred to laugh and sneer before helping him.

They had guns, he didn’t.

So he kept his head down and walked where he was told to.

There were noises all around; the landing bay was busy with activity. He could hear the sputter of sparks from a welding torch landing on rainwater (a storm was raging outside), and the clang of things being built, orders being shouted. Doors cranked open and shut, hiding things not meant for someone like him to see. Different uniforms, different faces.

The mystery of it nagged at him; of course it did. The Experimental Science Division was a rumor, whispers among even the Wehrmacht — soldiers and officers both. Rook was never asked to join in the discussions, but he’d heard and he’d remembered. Strange stories, about weapons that glowed, things that could blast through walls, solutions in test tubes that could make a person stronger…just stories, told to pass the time, to make them feel like the war was _in_ their control.

When the officer for his unit asked for volunteers (could it be volunteering if the alternative was hard labor?), for pilots to make regular and exclusive trips to supply a vitally important ESD with resources, Rook hadn’t quite believed it. Until he’d been shown the flight path, saw how it wove through canyons and unsteady weather and patches of impossible visibility, and realized how dangerous the trip was, each time it was made. Of course they preferred to risk soldiers like him. If they crashed, the worst thing that could happen was a lost plane and a missed shipment of coal. The Luftwaffe would still have pilots to send on bombing trips to Britain, and there would be another like Rook to take his place.

Bodhi Rook had lived his life trying to avoid conflicts and notice as much as possible, but that didn’t mean he was incapable of stubbornness, and he quietly refused to die. Others could do that, and his officer could be surprised — maybe even disappointed — every time he returned to make a fresh run, but Bodhi Rook would not die.

Live, that was all he wanted. That was all he set his sights on. Not a promotion, or favorable notice from his hard-mouthed officer, who treated his cadets like dogs and had eyes as narrow and distrusting as the others.

_I will stay alive._

It was the second time he’d made the trip from the mining field to the Experimental Science Division, and Bodhi still couldn’t quite believe his luck. The plane had almost plunged straight into a granite rock face because of poor visibility, but he’d made it. Bedraggled and in need of refueling, he’d made it.

His hands were slippery with nervous sweat, and the crate handles were slipping. Bodhi kept his head down as he struggled through the open steel walkway with part of his cargo, conscious of watching guards and the risk of them reporting him if he looked too curious ( _like a spy_ , a thought he quickly shoved back down).

His palm was throbbing now, and Bodhi felt the rope start to slip from his grip. He shut his eyes, praying not to be noticed…at the very least… _please._

Then —

The crate wobbled, and the lid came loose for a second, dislodging something small that plinked away like a coin. Bodhi lunged impulsively for it, realizing as he did that it was shiny, instead of dull and dusty like coal, but it vanished off the side of the walkway, falling into the suspended darkness beneath. Bodhi’s heart was in his throat, sure that he would be blamed, except the crate righted itself, from someone picking up one side in support.

To help him.

“Careful there,” said a voice without hostility (that was the first thing Bodhi would always notice). “It’s heavy.”

Bodhi hesitated, the words lost in his confusion. “I — ah — I’m sorry.”

The man was in a gray uniform, plain, but the markings on it were unfamiliar to him — until he read the German for _science_ on the crest emblazoned across the sleeve, and paused, dumbfounded. This man was one of the scientists for the ESD. One of the best and brightest (he had to be), handpicked to craft things meant for destruction, trusted to create and experiment…a genius.

Why was someone like him helping an inferior pilot?

“You don’t have to help me,” he said, his speech halting with nerves. “I can — I’m supposed to do this by myself — I think. I’m not sure. I don’t want any trouble.”

“Nonsense,” came the answer, efficient and understated. “I saw someone in need of help. If I am well, and able to provide assistance, what excuse do I have to stand idly by?”

“Because…” Bodhi fell silent as they passed a pair of guards, who bent their heads in respect to the man helping him with one side of the crate. “Because I’m not —”

— _like you. I was born at the edge of Russia. My parents were born elsewhere, across an ocean. My skin, my hair, my eyes — all dark. They say I’m inferior, and I was taught to believe them. I —_

“None of that matters here.” The stranger turned to look at Bodhi over his shoulder, and the creases at the corners of his eyes showed tiredness, but also that he was kind. “Knowledge and the courage to press forward is what we prize in scientific endeavor.”

Bodhi again fell silent at the strangeness of the situation he’d found himself in. An assignment to run supply trails to a mysterious division tasked with experimental science, with a crate that plainly wasn’t coal like it said on the flight manifest, and a weary-looking scientist with kind eyes volunteering to shoulder some of the burden, who spoke to him like he could read his thoughts.

Bodhi felt like a human being. He felt _seen_. And for once in his life, the knowledge that someone saw him — _really_ , genuinely — didn’t paralyze him with fear.

“T-thank you,” he said.

They were at the base of the cargo elevator now, and the man set down his half of the crate with a soft grunt, rolling his shoulder with something like ruefulness. “Not as young as I used to be,” he sighed. “Don’t worry, I’ll send someone to help you with the rest of your load.”

He held out his hand, and Bodhi shook it without thinking, purely from instinct. “I — ah — you —”

The words failed him, but the man only smiled. “Thank you for your service,” he said.

“Officer Erso!”

He — the kind stranger — turned at that, and Bodhi, in a moment of unthinking curiosity, looked too, catching a glimpse of another man in white at the far end of the corridor. The aura radiating off the uniform, the proud set of his stance — they made Bodhi avert his eyes like he’d accidentally looked too hard at the sun. His pulse was hammering again, begging not to be noticed.

“Duty calls, I’m afraid,” said the stranger, _Erso_. “What’s your name? I imagine you’ll be making the trip quite often from now on, I’ve heard we’re to have regular pilots.”

“B-Bodhi,” he blurted, only belatedly realizing he should have followed protocol and used his last name. “Sorry — sorry — I meant Rook. Bodhi Rook. Pilot.”

“Bodhi,” said Erso. He smiled again, but this time it came with a kind of resigned melancholy that seemed to settle in the lines of his face, scored deep into the skin by something other than age. “My name is Galen Erso.”

Bodhi couldn’t do anything except nod, and ducked his head in a hasty courtesy — something that made him immediately feel like a fool — but Erso didn’t laugh. He turned and walked towards the man in white, his arms folded behind his back and proceeding at a calm pace, as though he wouldn’t be hurried.

“ _You_.” A guard was watching him, now that Erso had left. “Get back to work.”

Bodhi hastened to do as he was told, but his mind was churning with unanswered questions. Who was Galen Erso? Who was he really?

A final thought, more urgent, more confused than ever:

How could a man like him be working for Germany?

* * *

Jyn wasn’t sure what she’d expected from the combination of _American_ and _smuggler_. She’d been to Manhattan before — again with Saul — and she got the impression that most Americans were content to stay within their nation’s borders, preferring to remain out of the problem of European warfare.

Clearly they were dealing with an exception.

“You’re late,” said their contact, removing the cigarette from his lips and breathing out a small cloud of smoke to add to the already saturated room. “And I thought I was just meeting you. Pick a girlfriend up on the way?”

Cassian sighed, like he was dealing with a familiar but tiresome friend. “I got here as fast as I could,” he said, pulling a chair out and gesturing for Jyn to sit. “You haven’t met. This is —”

“—Han Solo,” he said, barely glancing at Jyn, in favor of continuing to shuffle his deck of scruffy poker cards. “I’m the guy who’s gonna get you out of a tight spot.”

Blunt, cocky, and straying casually towards rude. But Jyn didn’t mind rudeness — she found that it often went hand in hand with uncompromising honesty, and she took a seat with something close to a smile. Cassian had to have a legion of contacts as part of his intelligence gathering, and she didn’t mind having a front row seat to watch him deal with a difficult one.

Maybe that was what it looked like when he dealt with her.

Cassian had just sat down when the curtain of beads rattled again, and Kay strolled past them — without a glance — to sit at the next booth. Jyn heard the rustle of book pages and his drink order, purely a stranger in the same location through nothing but coincidence.

Solo didn’t seem to have noticed, peeling back a card every now and then between shuffling, and grunting to himself like he’d guessed it wrong. Everything about him seemed to ooze lazy confidence, from the way he’d made himself comfortable in a meeting scheduled by someone else, playing cards like the only thing that mattered was his time, and they could damn well wait for it. Maybe the arrogance stemmed from his good looks — golden boy, young Hollywood, that kind of nonsense — but Jyn saw the scar on his chin and wondered how much of it was an act.

Someone didn’t run smuggling trails through war-torn Europe and evade capture without being at the very least intelligent — or crafty. Maybe Solo was used to being underestimated, playing low expectations to his advantage. Which included assuming the role of the good-looking, laid-back renegade, smoking a lazy cigarette in a backroom meeting with spies.

“You still owe me for that last poker game, you know,” he said, with a glance in Cassian’s direction.

“It wasn’t my idea to bet on that game,” Cassian said, barely moving his lips. “And you’re the one who owes _me_.”

“Who’s counting, huh?” Solo laughed, holding out his hands.

“Oh, get on with it already,” Kay muttered irritably, somewhere to Jyn’s left.

Jyn rested an elbow on the back of her chair, her head half-turned as though she was listening to the mediocre (but loud) piano tinkling away in the background. “Is he going to help us or not? We’re wasting time.”

“Oh, he’ll help,” Cassian said pointedly. “This is just his negotiating technique.”

“Nail on the head, C—” Solo paused at the look on Cassian’s face (maybe sensing Kay’s glare from the next booth over) and scratched the corner of his eyebrow. “What are you calling yourself these days? It’s pretty hard to keep up.”

“Augustin,” Cassian said, nearly through his teeth. “And we already agreed on the price.”

“That was before they brought in extra hostages from Nantes this morning,” Solo said, matter-of-factly. “You know what that means — things got messier in the city thanks to the nut job you put in charge of fighting back. Friendly fire wasn’t in the original contract — verbal, by the way — so I’m upping my fee to cover my overhead. Risk, reward, _et cetera_. You fill in the blanks.”

Not as unintelligent as he looked, then. Not even close. “I’m not _quite_ sure that’s what you’re covering,” Jyn said, still pretending she was listening to the music, not the men. “Sounds like you’re scared of a challenge.”

Solo scoffed and flicked an ace across the table. “Call it whatever you want, sweetheart, but your boyfriend’s paying my price, or my ride stays firmly where it is.”

Cassian exhaled. “How much?”

Solo grinned past his cigarette and blew smoke at the ceiling, clearly considering it. “Let’s see. Plan A to get you guys into Nantes was much simpler, but that’s out the window now, and you can thank your friends for that. Now Plan B needs some props, most of them not counterfeit-friendly. So for the ones we’ll need to buy, let’s add ten thousand francs to the original price. On top of that, we’ll need some forgeries — good ones — and those are hard to come by. If we use my guy, it’ll tack on another ten thousand. Then there’s the cost of getting shot at, or thrown somewhere real nasty without a window. So really —” he broke off to inhale again “— you’re looking at about fifty thousand extra.”

Kay snorted, half-hiding the sound in the ruffle of pages. “It might be cheaper to shoot you and find someone else,” he said, a sentiment that Jyn didn’t entirely disagree with.

Which would have been a problem, since she didn’t have a gun. But Cassian did, and she knew where it was.

Jyn shifted her chair, closer to Cassian’s side of the table. “What forgeries?” she asked, a question that earned her multiple blank looks. “You said your plan for smuggling us into Nantes needed forgeries. What kind?”

Solo eyed her speculatively over his cigarette. “Death certificates. Notarized, stamped, the whole deal. And those are pretty hard to come by without corpses. Lots of people trying to fake their death to get out of trouble, you get how it is, sweetheart.”

Jyn didn’t respond to the casual endearment. “I’ve done those before,” she said flatly, in a businesslike way that might have made Kay proud. “Sounds to me like we just saved ten thousand francs.”

Cassian bit back a laugh. “I forgot to mention that,” he said to Solo. “My mistake.”

Solo immediately sat up at the mention of a discounted price. “Hey, it’s still forty thousand extra,” he answered, a new edge to his voice. “Except now I’m tempted to tack on a surcharge for unfair competition.”

“What about a stupidity discount? You —” Jyn began, but was cut off mid-sentence by Cassian intervening, clearly sensing that she’d been about to call Solo something rude.

Well, _ruder_.

“Come on,” he said, gesturing for a waitress with a small — surprisingly convincing — laugh. “We’re all on the same side here, aren’t we?”

Cassian ordered more drinks from one of the dubiously-attired waitresses, and Jyn pressed on the dull throbbing at her temple, already sensing where the whole exchange was going. Manufactured male camaraderie over booze and cigarettes, something as inefficient as it was pointless.

After the waitress had drifted away with their order, Solo made a skeptical noise, his eyes still on Jyn. “I don’t do business with Nazis, but that’s about all we have in common, pal. I’m still with the side that pays me. It helps if they don’t try to bargain, either.”

Solo punctuated his sentence with a glare in Jyn’s direction. “Now where’s the fun in that?” she responded, with a smile like razor blades.

They all fell silent when the waitress returned bearing rattling glasses of cognac, and Jyn didn’t fail to notice the way she pressed on Cassian’s shoulder before leaving — even though the subject of her interest seemed more or less oblivious to it.

 _What a phenomenal_ _waste of time._

Cassian caught Jyn’s eye as he pushed one of the drinks towards her, but she only gave him a surly look in response, making it abundantly clear — if his brain was still on the mission and not on other distractions — that she didn’t think very much of his persuasion techniques. Solo took a swig from his glass and sat back again. “So you’re a forger, huh?” he said, jabbing his cigarette into an ashtray with what seemed like unnecessary force. “Standards certainly got lower since the last time I saw you, Auggie.”

“You’re one to talk, Han,” Cassian said, swirling the drink around in his glass. “I remember you considering an offer — at the time.”

“ _At the time_ ,” Solo stressed. “Thankless job, and you don’t get paid much for your trouble, either. At least I have one of those covered, doing what I do.”

It was Jyn’s turn to scoff. “Do you?” she queried. “Seems like you’re missing something — from where I’m sitting, anyway.”

Solo toasted her with his glass. “Maybe it’s the vantage point, sweetheart,” he said sarcastically.

“Maybe.” Jyn leaned forward to take a card from Solo’s deck and flipped it over with a flick of her thumb. Queen of Hearts. “But I doubt it. Look, Mr Solo, we’re wasting time. How about twenty thousand extra to cover your costs, and we’ll call it a deal?”

Solo flicked his cigarette into the ashtray. “Now why would I go for that, sweetheart?”

In answer, Jyn released the safety on Cassian’s gun, which was currently resting underneath the table on her knee. It was quiet, but a sound trained spies always listened for, and a self-preserving man like Solo _had_ to know by heart.

She saw the recognition flicker in his eyes, along with a gleam of something feral, something almost like excitement. _Reckless, thrill-seeking_. “Because I have a gun beneath this table, pointed at somewhere I’m _sure_ you’d rather I not shoot,” she said, never once breaking from her slight smile. “Twenty thousand, Mr Solo.”

* * *

In a moment of unwelcome digression, Cassian wondered what Kay’s odds for a successful mission were — now that Jyn had just pointed a gun at their only way into Nantes and a meeting with Saul Guerra.

He had a feeling it wasn’t high.

“Twenty thousand, Mr Solo,” Jyn said.

As soon as Cassian heard the click of the gun, he straightened up in surprise, because Jyn wasn’t supposed to have anything except a knife. Which meant —

The noise-suppressed Welrod was gone from the back of his belt. “What the hell are you doing?” he hissed.

“Odds of success just dropped to forty-five percent,” Kay volunteered, from the next booth.

“I think it’s pretty obvious that your girlfriend’s a thief, _and_ a forger,” Han said, one hand raised above the table in helpful salute. “You sure know how to pick ‘em.”

Cassian shot him a look, warning Han not to make things worse for himself. Given what he knew about Jyn’s temper and her demonstrated ability to survive in hostile territory, there was a good chance she’d pull the trigger if Han so much as called her _sweetheart_ again — if she didn’t tear him to pieces first.

Unfortunately, they were in a unique situation where there was a corresponding danger to Jyn too, because Han’s response to threats regarding his personal safety — if his memory served, and it always did — was to return fire.

Either way, the mission suffered. Han Solo was the only person in Europe crazy enough to take them into a volatile war zone like Nantes, knowing more or less who and what they were, but Jyn Erso was their only chance to get through to Saul Guerra and maybe — if they were lucky — succeed at unifying the disparate resistance factions in France.

It also went without saying that all four of them unequivocally did _not_ need a shootout in the middle of a crowded bar. Cassian sat forward, putting his arm on the table between Jyn and Han, like it could stop either of them from shooting. “Let’s all calm down here,” he said, his tone even. “I’m sure we can reach a deal.”

They both ignored him. “You’d really do it, wouldn’t you?” Han said, one hand still conspicuously out of sight — and Cassian had no doubts whatsoever that it was curled around a gun. “You’d really shoot me.”

Jyn held his gaze, a kind of savage excitement gleaming on her face like she wanted to see what Han would do next. Cassian’s eyes darted between the two, analyzing and dissecting the risks and alternatives, odds of detection and likely escape routes, but the thing that struck him was how Han wore a not entirely dissimilar expression.

Both reckless, both stubborn, both hating to be told what to do.

Knowing their shared commonality should have made diffusing the situation a possibility, but the realization of how much they shared was an instinctively unwelcome one, as though it (paradoxically) made Jyn and Han something of a team, more of a team than she was meant to be with himself and Kay.

So Cassian watched, and he waited. The silence stretched as tight and tense as steel wire, with Solo’s expression remaining unchanged, staring at Jyn like he was seeing her for the first time. Then he laughed, and raised both hands — empty — at his sides. “You’ve got fire, kiddo,” he said, nodding with something like appreciation. “Okay, you have yourselves a deal. Meet me in twenty minutes at the lion statue behind the plaza.”

Jyn twisted the gun around and handed it back to Cassian underneath the table, and he snatched it away before she could do anything even more risky. “Never do that again,” he muttered.

“You’re welcome,” she said shortly, getting up from her chair to go.

“I think I’m starting to like her,” Solo said, clearly meant for once she was out of earshot, but Cassian found that he preferred not to answer.

* * *

Once again, Jyn was in trouble.

“I don’t see what the problem is,” she said, pulling her blouse over her head and ducking to replace it with one meant for actual rough wear. “From where I’m standing, I just saved the Resistance thirty thousand francs.”

“You left out the part where you stole your commanding officer’s gun to threaten, and almost _shoot_ our contact in the groin,” Kay said, from outside the truck where she was changing. “How would _that_ look on the official report?”

Jyn shrugged, and tossed her skirt out onto the damp grass, having replaced it with slacks and a sturdy belt. “Interesting.”

Cassian had gone with Solo to get the rest of the so-called props for their entry into Nantes, leaving her to wait in the woods with Kay (Jyn had volunteered, but the words had fallen on suspiciously deaf ears). She supposed it was meant to be some kind of subtle punishment, since she’d probably defied orders.

In all fairness, they’d never told her _not_ to.

Jyn poked her head out of the truck, and her half-unbuttoned shirt made Kay turn the other way like he’d been prodded with electricity. “Must you _always_ be in a state of indecency around myself and Cassian?” he asked irritably.

 _Maybe until it stops being funny_ , Jyn thought vindictively, doing up the rest of her buttons. “Look,” she said, in what was meant to be a reasonable tone of voice, “thirty thousand’s a lot of money. They could use that to pay you. It’ll still be a pittance compared to everything else, but —”

The nostrils in Kay’s very straight nose were flaring in what could only be described as thinly suppressed homicidal urges. “Miss Erso, your behavior back in the rendezvous point was inexcusable. I might even describe it as going _rogue_.”

Jyn rolled her eyes and reached for her boots. “I thought the team designator was _Rogue_. They expect us to bend the rules.”

“They most certainly do _not_ ,” Kay answered. “I’ve half a mind to send you back to the farmhouse until the extraction — and so does Cassian.”

Jyn looked up at that, paused in the middle of her efforts to lace up her boot. “What happened back there, that’s how Saul Guerra negotiates — at gunpoint,” she said fiercely. “It’s what he taught me, it’s how he thinks, and the fact that you and Cassian can’t seem to understand that…all I can say is best of luck to you. Because if you send me back to wait quietly until it’s all over, I _guarantee_ General Draven’ll be picking up the pieces. Or maybe he could use the extra thirty thousand francs to pay Solo to do it for him.”

Kay narrowed his eyes at her. “I wouldn’t get too cozy with Mr Solo if I were you,” he said snippily. “That man comes and goes like the wind. Not to mention, you threatening to shoot him was reckless and ill-considered. What if he’d decided to shoot first?”

Jyn’s first response was a sarcastic answer, but Kay had hit on something she’d wondered about herself. Threatening to shoot Solo had been a risk she wouldn’t normally have taken (too noisy, too loud, too messy), except…she couldn’t explain it, apart from it being instinctive.

Maybe she saw something of herself in the smuggler. Not the arrogance (though maybe a little) or the good looks, but the fact that he worked chronic underestimation to his advantage, playing with appearances and manipulating the unfair slant to favor him. Pretending that he coasted by on his looks and charm, instead of the side of him that clawed and scrapped and fought for his place in the world, because more fool them for thinking there was nothing more to him.

Jyn had been underestimated all her life, maybe Han Solo had been too.

But none of this was likely to make sense to Kay in the slightest, so she shrugged, dropping her booted foot onto the hard earth. “He wouldn’t have shot me,” she said. “I just know he wouldn’t have.”

Kay scoffed again, and she looked over. “It doesn’t sound so bad to me, you know,” she added. “You should try living like he does, without being tied down for once. No orders, no uniforms…uncomplicated. Easy.”

Kay looked at her over folded arms, leaning on the side of the truck. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of drifting while our country goes to war,” he answered. “Even if that does entail certain _complications_.”

Jyn had been about to tie up her hair again, but she thought the better of it, in favor of asking an honest question — one she was sure Kay would answer, without Cassian there to mitigate the sting of truth. “If you dislike me so much, why did you agree to have me assigned to your mission? Cassian listens to you, it would have been easy to throw me over to another team.”

She was quickly learning that Kay’s way of showing terminal exasperation was to light a cigarette, something he’d only done a few times while outside of field work. He wasn’t a habitual smoker; she could tell by the way his brow knotted at the taste when he wasn’t doing it to keep up a cover. There was a long silence while he inhaled, deeply, before releasing the breath in a cloud of white mist. “Because, Miss Erso,” he said, rubbing at the corner of one eye with the tip of his finger, “my specialty is strategic analysis, which means I proceed with hard facts and personal histories in order to predict whether someone is likely to be a help or a hindrance. You’ve gone untethered your whole life, are hostile to authority, have trouble committing to any form of stability because of some unresolved childhood trauma, and are in possession of a truly terrifying volatile temperament. You can see what _I_ think.”

Jyn almost smiled at the brutal honesty of Kay’s assessment. “I can,” she said. “But?”

Kay was looking at the patch of blue sky showing through the trees. “I trust Cassian’s instincts. Always have, always will. He’s got a brain for numbers and logic, but he also lets his instincts guide his decisions. He trusts that about himself — I never could — and more importantly, that’s what makes him a damn good agent.”

A few embers dropped from the smoldering tip of his cigarette, and Kay ground them into the dirt with his boot. “He sees something in you, Miss Erso. I don’t think he knows quite what it is just yet, but it’s enough to make him want to believe that you could be more than just a terminal wanderer with a criminal record.” He chuckled to himself, and breathed out at the trees. “And here I thought the work had all but stamped the dreamer out of him — I suppose I was wrong.”

There was something different about the way Kay spoke about Cassian, uncharacteristic of the stiff-backed Major who followed his orders to the letter, whose thoughts ran in numbers and _if so, then_ logic. It was more than just the ungrudging respect between fellow colleagues, but the genuine care that came from friendship, and longstanding familiarity. It was protective, and loyal, and nothing like Jyn had ever experienced, not with anyone in her life. Kay was here because of his orders, but he was also standing here because he’d never abandon Cassian.

“You want him to dream?” she asked, with a flicker of a smile.

Kay glanced at her, like the question had surprised him. “It’s the closest thing people like us have to an…uncomplicated existence,” he said, without malice. “I believe that, yes.”

Jyn wondered if she was going to regret saying what she was about to. “I’m sorry,” she began, haltingly, as though she was trying to say the words in Finnish. “Next time, I’ll…try to act…more like you, Kay.”

Her labored promise made Kay choke on the smoke, and he was laughing behind his hand. “You’ve very welcome to try, Miss Erso.”

* * *

Cassian glanced out the truck window to make sure they weren’t being followed. The engine seemed indiscreetly — impractically — loud in the woods, even though the trees were by no means silent on their own, bird calls and the skitters of unseen animals pawing their way through the forest paths.

The windows were open to let the breeze into the overheated driver’s compartment. The both of them had been sweating; Cassian’s sleeves were rolled up to the elbow and he’d left his jacket on the seat beside him. In the absence of hiring outside help (risky), they’d both had to lift the funeral caskets into the back of the truck from Han’s disreputable (and unnamed) dealer.

“We should have chosen a different meeting place,” he said. “An undertaker’s truck driving towards the forest looks strange.”

“ _If_ anyone saw us,” Han added, stepping casually on the accelerator. “One thing I’ve learned is that coffins are a surefire way to get unfriendly eyes to look the other way. Everyone’s afraid of the pearly gates. They don’t like to think of dying, especially during a war.”

Cassian resisted the urge to roll his eyes at Han’s unique brand of circular logic. If there was one thing Han could be trusted to do (and there weren’t a lot of them), it was to talk his way out of trouble, even if it was Grim Reaper trying to settle the score. Trust Han to out-talk Death — or make a game attempt to, anyway.

“I’ll take the fire and brimstone, thanks,” he muttered, still watching the road behind them through the round wing mirrors.

Han barked a laugh at that. “You know, you really could loosen up a bit,” he said. “You’re traveling the world with a pretty girl, and all you can do is look at Nazis.”

Cassian didn’t even know how to begin crafting a response. Or whether his reaction was meant to be indignation, exasperation, or resignation — since he’d known what Han was like from the beginning. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s a _war_ around us. Jyn’s not here to travel — and neither am I. We're agents.”

“Really?” Han looked intrigued. “So what’s the mission? I thought you usually worked alone — or with Queen Victoria, Mr Stiff Upper Lip. Doesn’t seem like you to work with someone like her.”

Cassian brushed his hair out of his eyes. “If you’d accepted the Resistance’s offer to join up, I’d be able to tell you anything you wanted to know,” he said bluntly. “But you didn’t, so it’s classified.”

“C’mon, old friends like us?” Han laughed.

Cassian jerked his head. “Trust me, the less you know, the better.”

Han shrugged, as though to say _worth a try_. “She has nice eyes,” he said offhandedly, without clarifying who he meant. “Killer stare. You don’t see a blue like that a lot.”

 _Not just blue_ , Cassian corrected silently, because he’d noticed. _Blue, green and gold._ But he kept staring out the window, preferring not to give Han the extra ammunition of an actual response.

Then, thank god, they were there.

“I see them,” he said, bracing a hand on the truck door.

The clearing was deserted apart from the smaller truck and two people. Kay had been smoking (he and Jyn must have disagreed again) and upon sighting the truck, he dropped the lit cigarette and smothered it with his heel, a hand going to the gun he kept beneath his coat. Jyn’s head was poking out from the back of the truck, and he caught a gleam of steel from her knife, already raised and ready to attack.

Neither of them relaxed until they saw Cassian. “Just us,” he said.

Jyn dropped from the truck with a crunch of fallen leaves, gathering up her loose hair and twisting it behind her head as she made her way over to them. She was back in her usual clothes, scuffed boots and dusty slacks, worn leather gloves with fraying threads at the cut-off fingers, marks scored deeply into the material. Jyn had an instinct for danger as much as she did for combat, and she was clearly already anticipating trouble in Nantes. “Do we have everything?” she asked, her gaze moving over their truck and back.

“Depends.” Solo hopped down from the truck too, skimming at the trailing strands of her hair with the back of his hand. “How’d those death certificates turn out, kiddo?”

Observing firsthand, Cassian thought this was an incredibly gutsy move. Then again, Han was mostly guts and split-second choices, and he seemed to have taken Jyn’s prior threat to shoot him as an invitation to be teasingly familiar, like they were old, close friends. He hovered close to her now, casually encroaching on her personal space from his vantage point of six feet compared to her five feet three inches.

Kay took this in with a somewhat dubious look, as though silently questioning whether Han had a death wish. Thinking along the same lines, Cassian was already preparing to step in when Jyn looked up at Han like she’d just noticed how close he was, dismissed it, and pointed with her chin towards the smaller truck. “Hardly worth the ten thousand francs, but they’ll do.”

“True professionals never overcharge,” Solo said in her ear, and went to check on her work.

Their exchange hadn’t been more than a few seconds, but to Cassian they already looked like a pair, two sides of the same coin. Han making a joke, chucking her chin, and Jyn throwing him a look that warned him not to try it, even though her lips were already curving in a half-smile…too easy. In another life — in another turn of events — they might have been the ones meeting him and Kay in the smoky backroom of the seedy bar.

Cassian didn’t want to think about that version of Jyn, or Han. The one he had with him on the mission might have been wily, difficult, and an unquestionable troublemaker — but he liked her.

In spite of everything they were and weren’t, for all their small disagreements and incompatibilities neatly documented in crisp personnel files, he liked Jyn. Not like that, maybe, not anything deeper, because god only knew there wasn't supposed to be. He just…he liked her.

Maybe that was why the sight of them made him feel like there was something gnawing at him from the inside.

“Oh dear, it appears they’ve become _friends_ ,” Kay murmured, shuffling through the identity documents they’d need to walk around Nantes as civilians.

Cassian felt his face go blank in a studied reflex to hide his thoughts, especially when Jyn looked over at him. “So,” he said, in a clipped voice, “what’s the progress?”

“I forged our death certificates, Solo’s work permit, we retrieved our supplies from the farmhouse…” Jyn said, ticking off the items on her fingers, “and Kay delivered his disciplinary speech for my —”

“—insubordination, major infraction of operative conduct…” Kay mumbled, as fluid as reciting his prayers on a rosary.

Cassian nodded, still keeping his expression guarded. “Good,” he said. “Han thinks we’ll make Nantes before nightfall if we leave now.”

Kay lifted a flap of dark green canvas to look at the back of the truck they’d driven in. “I still wonder if this is one of the worst plans we’ve had,” he said, clearly thinking aloud.

“Don’t forget about Oslo,” Cassian reminded him. “Or Paris.”

“Right,” Kay said, with a snap of his fingers. “Silly me, only third-worst.”

“What happened in Oslo?” Jyn asked, in a rare moment of curiosity.

“The answer’s only for well-behaved junior operatives,” Kay answered, his smile chilly. “My lips are sealed, by His Majesty’s orders.”

“How convenient,” she muttered, and Cassian accidentally caught her eye, only because he hadn’t looked away fast enough. “And you? Bound by His Majesty too?”

Her old playfulness had resurfaced, and Cassian, in spite of himself, felt it thaw at his self-enforced distance. He almost answered her, but —

Solo rapped on the side of the truck. “Time and tide wait for no man — or woman — you know,” he said. “Not much point in reaching Nantes if it’s on lockdown for curfew. Unless you guys plan to spend the night in a coffin.”

* * *

Jyn threw her small pack into the truck and planted both palms on the edge to haul herself up, but Solo helped her with a cupped hand beneath her boot and a hand on her waist, lifting her with ease into the back.

That surprised her — she’d been sure Solo was the type to rescue someone from drowning, then ask for payment. A _Good Samaritan_ charge, he’d probably call it.

“Thanks,” she said, inadvertently glancing back to see that Cassian had reverted to his prior stony expression.

Jyn didn’t know Cassian nearly well enough to guess what his problem was, but since he ran on the default track of _Resistance Agent_ , and she had a feeling that her (an untested new operative) befriending one of his familiar contacts threatened some kind of invisible territory. Did agents get possessive over their intelligence contacts? Maybe with the effort going into cultivating them.

But _petty_ didn’t seem to be in Cassian’s character, especially since _befriend_ in Solo’s case was a descriptor used in the absolute loosest sense. It made her frown, and she faced the front again, silently counting the number of caskets stacked at the back of the truck. She’d wondered why Solo asked her for six death certificates, and seeing the size of them now, she had an idea.

“And how many of these are going to be hiding priceless art?” she asked, throwing open the lid of one casket to inspect the lining. Easy to cut through and glue back into place.

“Hey, it’s not my fault that the Germans don’t open coffins if they think there’s dead people in ‘em,” Solo drawled. “Besides — I gotta recoup my costs, don’t I? Planes don’t fly themselves out of Lisbon on goodwill. Gasoline’s expensive.”

Jyn lowered herself into one of the caskets to test out the length. The half-expected chill of pretending to be dead and sitting in a genuine coffin didn’t quite come — it actually felt more comfortable compared to some of the beds she’d used in her lifetime. Cassian and Kay were moving the rest of their gear into the other caskets, but Solo crouched by hers, clearly wanting to talk.

“So what’s a girl like you doing with the Resistance, huh?” he asked. “You seem like the type who doesn’t take orders.”

Jyn wedged her pack between her feet and leaned against the back of her casket. “I don’t,” she said, making herself comfortable. “They offered me something, and I accepted.”

Solo’s smile was as mischievous as his demeanor suggested. “So how’s that different from being with the side that pays better?”

Jyn considered it. “It’s a lot less lonely than I thought,” she said, her gaze lingering on Cassian’s turned back.

“We ought to get things moving,” Kay said, while Cassian continued to work.

Solo saluted him ironically. “Yessir,” he said, and braced his hands on the lid of Jyn’s casket. “All good in there?"

"Perfect fit," Jyn said, lying flat inside the coffin. "Try not to look so pleased."

Solo winked. "Sleep tight, kiddo. See you on the other side.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bodhi's scene is basically establishing what he's up to while the others are running around doing spy stuff. So in terms of what he's doing in the German army, there were definitely non-German soldiers involved on the Axis side. Some of them were POWs, some enlisted willingly - lots of reasons. Side note: there was even an Indian Legion around at the time. Really interesting bit of history to read up on, if anyone's interested.  
> Look forward to the other members of the gang popping up soon :)


	8. Into the War Zone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Otherwise known as "The One Where Everyone Loses Their Marbles A Bit From Jealousy".  
> I'm kidding. They have other things to worry about :)

For Jyn, lying inside a coffin at the back of a moving truck counted as a first. She wasn’t bothered by small, confined spaces (waiting in the cave for Saul to get her proved that once and for all), and they tended to be handy when trying to escape pursuit. But it _was_ strange.

Noises felt like they were coming from far, far away. Little creaks sounded like distant cries, bumps in the road like the scratching of small things, voices — neutral, or otherwise — were unbearably, excruciatingly muffled. The minutes during the inspection at the Nantes checkpoint had felt like hours, and Jyn had been so tempted to crack the lid just an inch, just so she could hear what Solo was saying to them.

But she hadn’t, and they’d gotten through.

The truck had been moving slowly for the last half-hour since the inspection, swaying and rocking in a vaguely soporific rhythm, but Jyn felt all the sleepiness burn away in one heart-pounding blaze as the clang of something — a gate being lowered — echoed close by.

She reached to her side and picked up her knife, curling her gloved palm against the grip.

The lid burst open with a rush of cool air, and Jyn exhaled in relief. But it wasn’t Han who’d come to get her, it was Cassian.

“We made it,” he said, like he could barely believe it himself. “We’re in Nantes.”

Jyn sheathed her knife and accepted his hand to help her out of the casket. It had been hot, breathing in her own air and staying as still as possible, and she knew her cheeks were flushed pink when she slid out the back of the truck, straight into some kind of loading bay.

“Where are we?” she asked, as Solo slammed the driver’s side of the door.

“Morgue,” he said, throwing her a beaten leather jacket like it was the most natural thing to do. “Undertaker’s a friend. He thinks I’m just taking art out of the country — let’s keep it that way.”

Not being the type to turn down free gifts, Jyn slid her arms into the jacket to try it on. It was most definitely secondhand, maybe a little shorter than she would have liked, but there was something fuzzy in the lining and the shoulders fit right, which was all that mattered. She tended to move fast during fights, dodging and parrying to compensate for her smaller size. Judging by the faded smell of perfume — it wasn’t Solo’s either.

“Did one of your friends leave this behind, Mr Solo?” she asked, and he lifted his shoulders.

“Hey, if it fits,” he said, with an unashamed grin. “And call me Han.”

Jyn pushed a worn cap onto her head, tucking the twist at the nape of her neck out of sight. “Stop calling me _kiddo_ , and I just might.”

“Jyn,” Cassian said quietly. He and Kay were standing around a table, clearly about to discuss the final details of the plan.

Han clearly anticipated not being welcome to the conversation, because he rolled his eyes and made a show of climbing onto the truck for some unspecified purpose. Except that it involved loud shuffling.

There was no paper, no written plan, but she hadn't exactly been expecting one. The table beneath Cassian’s hand was streaked with the colors of a sunset, burnt orange, faint gold and a wash of crimson. The light was coming from one of the high windows, clouded and small, but she guessed that it was a little past five, maybe later.

“Curfew starts at nine,” Cassian said. “If we’re outside and we’re caught, they’ll shoot. No jail, no questioning. Everyone out after curfew hour is assumed to be one of Guerra’s.”

“What’s your plan to find his faction, exactly?” Jyn asked. “They’re hiding in the mountains — we’ll have better chances of finding treasure than stumbling into their hideout without an invitation.”

“Less, actually,” Kay pointed out. “They severed contact with HQ after their refusal to merge with the other factions. But lucky for us, we have intelligence that the Guerra faction have infiltrated the city. Some of them work in establishments frequented by members of the government — good to spy, pick up news, that sort of thing — and if we loiter around one of these places, we might be able to slip your name to one of them, hope it finds its way back to Mr Guerra.”

Jyn lifted her eyes from the table and found herself looking directly at Cassian. “Hope?” she said, trying to decide if he was crazy, or something worse. “That’s all you’re basing this on? Us going through all this trouble to get into the city — the meeting with Saul — what it comes down to is _hope_?”

Cassian had watched her while she spoke, not speaking, and when she fell silent at the end of her question, he lifted his shoulder slightly, almost in defiance. “Resistance is built on hope.”

The way he’d said it, like it was the simplest thing in the world, as untouchable as something of worship, clung to in the darkest of times and guarded like a secret part of the soul, simultaneously made Jyn think: _you fool_ , and something else. Something she wasn’t quite ready to quantify, or name.

There was a slam from inside the truck, and their locked gazes broke, the both of them turning around to see what it was. Jyn blinked hard, rapidly, as though she’d been out of focus. Han jumped down again, a greasy rag in his hands. “It might just be my two cents,” he said, wiping his hands on the cloth, “but I’d turn back right now instead of taking my chances in a war zone.”

Cassian gave him a look. “Or, you’d rather get paid for the return trip now, seeing as it’s unlikely we’re about to survive.”

“ _Very unlikely_ ,” Kay corrected.

They started to move, but Jyn shook her head, with a dawning realization. It was wrong, all wrong. The plan — a word used in the loosest sense — wouldn’t work like this. “You're not serious,” she said, and it stopped everyone short. She pointed to Kay. “You can’t come with us. You look like Gestapo. We’ll never get close to Saul’s people if we’re sitting anywhere near you.”

Kay looked offended. “I do _not_.”

Jyn glanced at Han, who cocked his head, as though just realizing the truth of what she’d said. “Oh, you're right. I think it’s the nose.”

“Well, forgive me if I’m not inclined to trust the word of a smuggler,” Kay answered scathingly.

Han only held out his hands. “Smugglers like me look out for people who might be secret police, so you’ve kinda shot yourself in the foot there, your majesty.”

Cassian, pinching the bridge of his nose, muttered a frustrated sentence under his breath. Jyn's Spanish was fairly limited, but she recognized the word _cabrón_ , which didn't sound very polite at all — a suspicion reinforced by Kay turning to him and adding as an aside: "Oh, I wholeheartedly agree. Rather an ass."

"Hey, that's the thanks I get for smuggling you guys past half the German reserves in France?" Han said, even though he didn't sound particularly offended.

Jyn supposed it had something to do with being called a _bastard_ or an _ass_ on a relatively frequent basis, but before the three men could digress into the kind of argument that showed every sign of becoming an ego contest, she interrupted to bring things back to the matter at hand.

“Look, it’s nothing personal,” Jyn said, winding a scarf around her throat. “But Saul’s trained his men to be suspicious. If three strangers ask for a meeting with their leader — and one of them looks like he should be wearing an SS badge — they’ll shoot us, guaranteed.”

Kay looked deeply annoyed, even for him. “And you couldn’t have shared this — ah — _vital_ information before we went through all this trouble?”

“That was before I found out that the Great Plan hinged on nothing more than _hope_ ,” she said, with a pointed look in Cassian’s direction. “Sorry, but I vote that you wait here with Han.”

“You can’t be _serious_.” Kay turned to Cassian indignantly. “That’s not the plan.”

Clearly, they both knew who the deciding vote was, and Jyn looked at him too. “It makes sense,” she said. “You brought me here because I know Saul. Believe me, we need to look like friends, or this whole thing goes to hell.”

A moment passed, during which Cassian clearly weighed Jyn for what she was worth — her word, to be precise — and she waited. Like he said, _hoping_.

Then Cassian jerked his head at the truck. “She’s right,” he said. “We’ll find a way to meet you later, but blending in matters more.”

Jyn pretended the implied vote of confidence didn’t make her stomach feel oddly light.

“Unbelievable,” Kay said, stalking towards the truck. “Whose side are you on, _really_?”

* * *

“So this is goodbye, I guess,” said Han.

Jyn had been waiting by the door, watching a harried-looking Cassian in a low-voiced discussion with Kay across the room, who was — to put it lightly — displeased at the sudden change of plan. She knew the feeling. Between thinking there was a more concrete plan and finding out it was the equivalent of a tightrope over twenty feet of empty air, and knowing there was no concrete plan only to have it swapped out for an even _less_ concrete one at the last minute — vexing, either way.

Then again, she knew quite well that the specificity of an agent’s orders went only as far as an objective meant to be achieved. The plan (if any) was reserved for the operative to determine once they made landfall, taking local intelligence and on-the-ground circumstances into account. It sounded more like _directed survival_ to her, but she didn’t imagine General Draven would be particularly interested in an outsider’s opinion, least of all hers.

She gave an impatient sigh that neither of her team members heard, eyeing the darkening window above the morgue. Either they were discussing how trustworthy she was and whether it was some kind of ruse for the purposes of sabotage, or they were trying to reason their way from one half-baked plan to another.

Han stepped up to her, leaning against the wall with a hand planted above his head, nonchalance from head to toe. “Is it always like this?” he asked.

Jyn made a face. “Only whenever they’re around each other. I’m starting to think there’s a little club I’m not part of.”

“That’s your style? What d'you call ‘em — gentlemen’s club?”

She considered her answer, and phrased it as sweetly as she was capable of. “None of your business, Han.”

“All right, Jyn.” Han was looking at the pair of them, and a smile spread slowly over his _not_ unattractive features. “So I guess this is goodbye for now, huh?”

She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” she said. “I’ll remember to hit you when I come back, _alive_.”

“Hey, you never know during wartime,” Han answered, shrugging his shoulders. “Better safe than sorry. Couldn’t live with myself if I sent a girl like you off without a goodbye kiss.”

Jyn actually laughed in surprise, and the sound immediately caused Kay and Cassian to look over like they’d smelled smoke. “You’re not getting a kiss,” she said, even though the base of her neck was starting to feel a little warm.

But Han wasn’t her type. Too brash, too loud, too… _same_. It’d be like kissing a mirror version of herself, only more annoying, male and taller. Like knowing exactly what the person across from her was thinking because the same thought had flashed into her head. No challenge, no intrigue. It wasn’t what she wanted — _if_ she even wanted anything at all, and maybe she didn’t.

So Jyn set her jaw and warned Han with a look not to try anything. But clearly, he had a penchant for bending the rules.

“Who said you had to give it to me?” he said, very close to her ear. He turned and kissed her on the cheek, in full view of everyone present. “See? Harmless.”

It was like Han had snapped his fingers and performed magic, because Cassian was suddenly behind them, finished with his impromptu war council. “Ready to go?” he asked.

Jyn reached for the pack at her feet and swung it onto one shoulder. “Are you joking?”

Han held the door for them, returning Cassian’s sparingly professional nod, and winking at Jyn before she stepped through. “Be seeing you.”

* * *

They emerged from the mortuary’s side exit and walked up a narrow, dusty alleyway, pausing on either side of the opening to make sure their covers were in place. Neither of them mentioned Han, or anything that had happened before the door swung shut just seconds before. The mission came first.

Jyn nodded silently at Cassian, and he nodded back. Steeling herself, she slipped out onto the street, blending into the flow of pedestrian traffic, Cassian at her side.

She’d been right to be careful, since there wasn’t much of it.

Châteaubriant was the smaller town in comparison to Nantes’ city, barely two hours by motor, but it was hard to tell they’d stepped into a city at all, rather than a ghost town. It was eerily quiet, windows in the buildings staring like empty eyes, broken glass and grit beneath Jyn’s boots as the silent evidence of destruction not quite smoothed over. They made their way up the sloping street, and the only people they saw were ones hurrying like they didn’t want to stay on the street for too long.

No market stalls, no children playing on the pavement, no bicycle bells ringing to signal pedestrians — nothing.

Then they reached what must have been the center of the neighborhood, and Jyn’s throat tightened. There was a blackened ruin where one of the buildings used to be, a simple residential, but when she saw what stood next to it — a municipal police station — she realized what Saul’s faction had done. They’d tried to take down a Gestapo station (everyone knew the French police meant German these days), and missed. Careless, and the Germans weren’t the ones to pay the price. All they had to show for it was scorch marks on the side of the brick building that had been the actual target.

Cassian’s hand was warm on her arm, and Jyn realized she was cold. “Hey,” he whispered. “We have to keep moving.”

Jyn wanted to spit, not at him, but the careless — fanatical — blinded men and women who’d done this. Saul’s power over them, to the point where his fiery speeches could convince them that anything was worth the cost of a few dead Germans.

Maybe one of them might have been her. Maybe she would have had a gun in her hands. Maybe she would have been the one to throw the bomb.

Maybe — and this thought hurt her more than she’d expected — she might have been able to change Saul’s mind, if he hadn’t left her behind.

“ _Jyn_.” Cassian was pulling her now, away from the uncleared rubble and the charred, forgotten house. “Come on.”

After they were clear of the square, some of the noise and animation characteristic of a city seemed to return, and Jyn shifted her arm out of Cassian’s grip. Not out of hostility — she just wanted to walk alone.

There were still signs of skirmishes, sooty smears on walls, maybe the odd cluster of shattered glass, signs of where the local police had tried to burn away a painted _V_ winging across a blank wall, for fear of offending the German presence…

 _V_ for _Victoire_. Victory.

It was hard to tell how it might be true.

Jyn passed a child squatting in the shadow of a stone statue, a sword-wielding angel with half its wing gone, and hesitated. Before she could reconsider, she was already doubling back. She dug into her pocket and found a few francs, which she pushed into the girl’s hand.

The girl was too dumbfounded to reply, and Jyn tried not to think about how a few francs wouldn’t bring back the dead in Nantes. Cassian was waiting for her when she strode past him, her pace quickened as if to make up for the ground she’d lost.

They were drawing near the shadow of the church, but the windows were shuttered, the doors boarded up, paint slashed across to hide whatever had been written beneath it, and slashed again. The edges of the building seemed singed too, like it hadn’t been immune to the dangers of the city either, consecrated ground or not.

“May the Lord be with you on this day,” said a strong voice in French, echoing off the flagstones. “May the Lord be with you on this day.”

A hooded man sat on the steps of the abandoned church, a long wooden staff resting beside him in the dust. There was no cup, no bowl for begging, he only raised his hand as people passed him, repeating the same blessing like clockwork.

“What’s he doing?” Jyn said.

Cassian had already taken her sleeve in pre-emptive precaution against her going any closer. “The Nazis don’t like Catholics. They’ve ordered all the churches in Nantes to be closed, and no one’s thinking about appealing because the Bishop of France has gone silent. Says he doesn’t want trouble. That man on the steps is either mad, or too devout to care that he’s risking his life by blessing people on the street,” he said in her ear. “Leave him.”

Jyn turned to look over her shoulder as they passed, and she could have sworn that the hooded man was faced in their direction now, as though he knew what they were saying.

“May the Lord be with you both!” he called, but Cassian didn’t seem to hear, his stare pointed straight ahead, like there was nothing — nothing — the matter with the ruin in front of him.

There was to her. “How can you be like that?” she asked, in a furious undertone. “How can you — _see_ — all of this, and just…have nothing to say?”

Cassian swept a quick gaze at their surroundings, then pulled her into a narrow side lane, clearly sensing that she’d been about to raise her voice. “Me?” he said, incredulously. “I’m the one who’s been _fighting_ against the people responsible for these things. I haven’t been the one keeping my head down and avoided forming an allegiance to anything and anyone except myself.”

Jyn had been staring hard at the bricks behind Cassian’s arm while he spoke, but she raised her head at that, because it stung. She’d expected Cassian to disagree — not to be _angry_ with her, and it sounded very much like he was. Even more than that, like there’d _been_ anger simmering beneath the surface for some time, and this was the chance to set it free.

Except Jyn could be stubborn too. She couldn’t deny that she’d seen terrible things done to ordinary people, and _yes_ , she’d kept her head down, but the Resistance — through mouthpieces like Kay and Cassian — had judged her for doing the exact same thing as they were. Her only mistake was not slapping a so-called _cause_ onto her forehead. For all the Resistance’s posturing, the talk about greater causes and gloried allegiances, the conditions in the real cities that their work affected — it spoke for itself. Saul Guerra may have formed a divergent resistance faction of his own, but the division had only become terminal,  _critical_ , because General Draven and whoever he counseled with hadn’t taken steps to bridge it before.

“The prison camp. The man on the steps,” she listed, while the words thrummed with resentment. “They’re the people who suffer while you and your types play _chess_ with their lives, with all your creeping, and guesswork, and _spying_.”

“Hey.” Cassian gripped her shoulder, not gently at all. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. If we tried to save every single person there is to save, we lose the war.”

Maybe she didn't, and maybe she was being unfair, but there wasn't a phrase Jyn despised more than _just following orders_ , and Cassian — right then — seemed content to do just that.

“Sounds like you and General Draven need to rethink your priorities,” Jyn said, her eyes hardened to shards of glass as sharp and dangerous as the ones she’d ground beneath her heel. “Because there won’t _be_ people left to save if all you’re ordered to do is strike deals and talk in backrooms.”

Cassian’s response to challenge was to fold his arms and stay precisely where he was, an infuriating habit that only made Jyn want to force something _more_ out of him, more than just this steely calm. “Larger objectives need to be followed, and orders need to be respected. If you can’t stomach that, then maybe you shouldn’t be an operative,” he said, in a voice that cut with the neat precision of a surgeon's scalpel.

“Fine,” Jyn spat. “Find Saul Guerra on your own. Bring Kay with you, leave me behind with Han. I’ll let the General know where to find your bodies — _if_ Guerra’s men leave anything of you for the crows to peck at.”

She’d clearly said something to spark Cassian’s usually dormant temper, and his eyes flashed with something almost dangerous. “Fine, you want to stay with Han. Next time, I’ll remember that, agent Erso,” he said, deliberate and quiet. “But for now, we’re wasting time we should be using to find Guerra.”

They had moved closer to each other during the course of the argument, responding to the natural push-and-pull of each other’s words, but now that it was over — or close to being over — Jyn still didn’t stand down, and neither did he. Cassian was acting like her commanding officer, and maybe he was, but they were disagreeing about something else that went unspoken, beyond the actual words they threw in each other’s faces.

She’d struck him somewhere personal, and he’d returned the favor.

But like he said, there wasn’t the time, and he clearly wanted to be done with the mission as much as she did.

“Fine,” she said.

“Fine,” he answered.

* * *

Jyn hadn’t spoken to Cassian since their disagreement in the alley. She proceeded in stony silence at his elbow, close enough not to lose him in the flow of people — sparse as it was — but at a distance that suggested they weren’t anything but two strangers walking in the same direction.

Cassian knew that Jyn’s main point of contention would be the issue of authority. Her life had hardly groomed her to be receptive to commands without first questioning the _who, when,_ and _why_ of it. The reasons were obvious, and he practically knew them by heart. Figures of guidance were few and far between in her life — the father she’d presumed dead, her deceased mother, and the resistance general who’d abandoned her. She was a survivor, but she was also fiercely questioning of anything she was told.

Admittedly, Cassian had failed to defuse the argument as he should have. He’d gone at her point of weakness because she’d instinctively managed to put her finger on his, to the part of the work that always felt the hardest to justify — why one over the other, why some lives mattered more than others in the chess game of _Axis versus Allied_. Logically, there were always reasons, reasons Cassian could recite to himself whenever he felt himself slip, but consciences didn't operate on numbers and strategic analysis, and in his heart of hearts, he felt like there _couldn't_ be a justification for it, no excuse. At the end of the day, it was just what became the easiest to live with.

Some days, _easiest_ wasn't easy at all.

But all of it ought to have been said in the alleyway, and now Cassian was left with the general impression that whatever tentative goodwill they’d built up during Jyn's time in training seemed to have evaporated in the wake of Châteaubriant. Not that goodwill was necessarily essential to field work as operatives, but Cassian didn’t like knowing that Jyn was angry with him, and that there were matters that hung unresolved between them.

Cassian sighted the tavern doorway and climbed the steps, ducking his head at the low lintel. Jyn followed, close only because the space and their cover stories demanded it. Their arrival went by unremarked, the most they got was one or two glances before more came in behind them; workers in overalls and smelling of a day in the fields or mines.

There were a number of options they might have chosen in order to get close to one of Guerra’s fighters. The establishments they infiltrated were divided between the higher and lower class levels of reputability, both with their respective advantages. Upper-class establishments would be helpful if they wanted to pick up on German intelligence, but fresh faces into the echelons of high society would be scrutinized, less so than if they went to a simple neighborhood tavern. Middle-class, nothing remarkable, the kind of place people would walk into after a hard day’s work, to exchange stories and neighborhood gossip. An inconspicuous mine of information.

Jyn bumped her shoulder into someone big and burly on her way in, and in an instant her fire seemed to spark again, but Cassian grabbed her arm and pushed her along. “Not looking for trouble,” he murmured as a reminder, and she yanked herself free to keep walking.

“I can walk by myself,” she hissed, and Cassian left it well alone.

They edged their way to a shared table and sat down. The patrons only glanced briefly at them before going back to their foaming beers and conversation, clearly upset about something that had nothing to do with them. Jyn, her cap pulled low over her face, leaned into the shadow left by a convenient pillar, watching and listening. Further inside the tavern, Cassian could see clustered tables of German officers near to the music, and their raucously drunken singing of songs from home (the target of some resentment in the other patrons, though they kept their mouths shut).

They were served hot mugs of cider, and Cassian leaned forward with his. “Can’t go anywhere without them,” he said conspiratorially to the man across from him.

Agreement sparked in his gaze. “Swine,” he muttered. “All the best places are theirs, all the best food and drink.”

As they spoke, a pair of pretty girls passed their table, perfumed and lipsticked and undoubtedly French, but they brushed past their countrymen without so much as a glance, and there was a roar of welcome from the German side of the tavern. “ _Collaboratrice_ ,” the man grumbled, and shoved his empty mug back to get another.

Cassian turned his head slightly to see that Jyn was scanning the inside of the tavern from her hidden seat. “There must be a backroom here somewhere,” she said. “I might be able to stop one of them if I wander.”

He disagreed. “Risky,” he murmured, as an officer stumbled drunkenly towards the toilets. “It’ll look suspicious if you’re caught.”

“Doesn’t leave us with a lot of options,” she said, and he detected an undercurrent of impatience. “We’re on a tight schedule.”

There was a stir near the door, and Cassian detected a dozen raised hackles, tension rising from something they were seeing that he wasn’t. “What’s going on?” he asked someone, as they walked back from the window.

“That’s not a normal car,” the man whispered. His breath was foul, onions and something pickled, but there was something else — close by.

Cassian turned, silently searching the faces around him.

It was the smell of gunpowder. Fresh, like someone had been test-firing to make sure the weapons didn’t jam. There was always a second explanation, and in this case — moderating the urgency of suspicion — it was mining work, which involved gunpowder explosives just the same.

But there was no accompanying smell of fresh earth, and the absence of it put him on edge.

There wasn’t time to process it fully; something else was happening.

“ _Mon dieu, Oberstleutnant_ Schmidt,” someone whispered, and the whisper was traveling. _Oberstleutnant Schmidt, Oberstleutnant Schmidt_.

Cassian felt Jyn’s fingers dig into his arm in a wordless question, and he searched his memory for the face and file to go with the name. _Schmidt_. Dieter Schmidt. Lieutenant Colonel. There’d been something in the wires about him replacing the previous security official in charge of Nantes, meant to be a step in a crackdown over an unruly city, quashing resistance to German rule.

“What’s he doing here?” someone asked, unfriendly.

“Probably showing off,” was the disgruntled answer.

But the doors banged open, and Cassian saw why. The Lieutenant Colonel wasn’t blind-drunk — just very close to it — and stumbled in between two attractive, very young women, his face pink and flushed with drink. He raised his arm in a salute, and the dozen officers — maybe more — clustered near the back all leapt to their feet to return it.

As they passed the barman, Cassian saw Schmidt turn to slur something in his direction, and the man’s fluent reply, his stiff gesture towards the area in the back. Unwilling, but compliant. Some of the noise died down at the front of the bar after the Lieutenant Colonel stumbled off to join his fellow countrymen, but Cassian was still searching for the source of the gunpowder smell, his thoughts racing at a breakneck pace. It didn’t make sense — it didn’t connect. Was there a Resistance fighter somewhere here? If so, who? And how could he approach him without being seen?

Jyn’s hand was on his shoulder. “Who is he?” she asked.

“ _Oberstleutnant_ ,” Cassian murmured. “He’s one of the people in charge of policing the city.”

“Not very smart, is he?” Her gaze flicked across the crowd. “Walking drunk into a place where he’s the enemy.”

“It’s a show of confidence in the military administration,” Cassian guessed. “Germans have nothing to fear — that kind of thing.”

Jyn snorted quietly into her drink. “How’s that going to look when he’s lying dead on the floor with a knife in his back?”

Cassian shot her a warning look. “Don’t say that. Don’t even think it.”

“I’m not,” she said, matter-of-factly. “But th—”

She tensed, looking at something behind him, clearly seeing something he hadn’t. He turned; the men sitting opposite from them had been replaced, their faces harder, more grizzled, and unfriendly. Jyn’s eyes gleamed as she took them in, as though there was something familiar about what she saw. Her head moved, towards the German officers, then back again. “Something’s not right,” she said, and he felt his nerves draw taut in response to her agitation.

But before he could say anything else, she wedged her boot into a horizontal support in the wooden bench, and kicked. The men sitting across from Cassian bowled over with a chorus of yells, mugs and glasses smashing, foam and sour-smelling beer flying everywhere.

Cassian was about to yank Jyn out of the place — starting a scene with German officers and a senior official close by, was she _mad?_ — until a gun spun from one of the men’s splayed hands, coming to rest in the puddle near his boot. “He has a gun,” Jyn said, and all hell proceeded to break loose.

* * *

Jyn had been watching the tavern while the others had their attention on the Germans. There was hate and dislike in its various descending denominations, as expected from those beneath the boot of Nazi Germany, but she’d started to suspect something wasn’t right when the men sitting near them had been shoved out of the way, by two strangers who had entered shortly after the Lieutenant Colonel. They’d chosen a table diagonally across from the German cluster, not close enough to eavesdrop, not close enough to take out their frustrations through petty gestures or audible insults, either.

So why?

While she’d been whispering with Cassian, she’d noticed their hands. Scarred, with blisters and mottled burns, like they’d handled crudely made and dangerous weapons in a hurry and with frequency. The same scars she might have had in abundance, if a man named Saul Guerra hadn’t shielded her from the worst of them and taught her how to be careful.

Her head flicked to one side, gauging the distance it would take for a gunshot to the head. Point-blank — manageable with any handgun.

One of them nodded to the other, and slipped a hand into his jacket.

The pieces came together in one dizzying rush. They were going to assassinate the Lieutenant Colonel, probably on Saul’s orders, and Jyn had some very quick decisions to make. She could either sit back and watch it happen, escape into the dark with Cassian — but the fighters connected to Saul anywhere near the tavern would probably all be dead by morning, either by their own stupidity, or from retaliatory fire by the group of German officers better armed and trained than they were.

It wouldn’t compromise their cover.

But it would also make what she’d seen in the square much, much worse, because the Germans wouldn’t stand for one of their own being assassinated by a defiant resistance faction in defeated French territory. The hostages in the camp outside of Châteaubriant would bear the brunt of it, probably more hostages from Nantes in reprisal…

It equalled a weaker French Resistance, a wearier, more beaten France, and people hungry for blood.

Damn her orders, because Jyn knew what she was going to do. What she _had_ to do.

So she skidded back on her chair, leaving her enough room to brace her foot against the table, and shoved with all her strength. The sturdy legs screeched across the floor, and the table caught the two faction members across the chest, knocking them straight off the backless benches onto the floor.

She turned to Cassian, who looked incredulous (probably because he assumed she’d actually lost her mind, after what happened at the meeting with Han), and Jyn explained her action in the most succinct way she could manage. “He has a gun,” she said.

By some kind of unexpected miracle, Cassian understood, and he backed away from the bench, pulling her with him. Jyn held off, because he should have kicked the gun on the floor — he’d been closer to it — but before she could get there, men around them were getting to their feet. Two — five — eight…nearly a dozen now, fanning out across the crowd inside the tavern, their stances tense and ready for action. More were coming in from the street, stamping on the floorboards with the hard, determined march of men with a purpose.

Jyn swore under her breath. They’d come prepared.

The German officers were just starting to look around at the disturbance, the ineffable shiver of danger in the air. Jyn searched for the Lieutenant Colonel’s face in the group, except they all looked the same to her, a pack of animals herded together and indistinguishable. Their uniforms may have given them power on the streets, but now — _here_ — it only marked them as prey.

A hush fell over the tavern, like the quiet before the storm. “ _Vive la France_ ,” someone said, and the first gunshot went off with a roar.

“Look out!” Cassian ducked behind the table, and he hauled Jyn down with him, shielding her from the spray of broken glass as bullets shattered the glasses on the table where they’d been sitting.

The two faction members she’d knocked over had been shot dead, and the fight was on the move. It sounded like the German officers were returning fire while the resistance faction regrouped, firing over their dead and others. Jyn slid behind a column for cover and Cassian dived behind another, the both of them waiting — listening — for an opening.

For a second — and a second was all they had — they looked at each other, mutually assessing the aftermath of their disagreement. Then Cassian nodded, and Jyn returned it. Whatever trust there was left, it was enough to try and get out of the situation together, alive.

She yanked off her cap and tossed it to the side. It would only block her ears and eyes, and she needed both if they were going to have a hope in hell of surviving an impromptu gunfight. The others (Resistance or German) finding out that she was a woman came only secondary to the first priority. _Survive_. Weapons were going off on all sides, panicked shrieks and glass shattering as people caught in the crossfire tried to flee, or failing that — hide.

A bullet sank into the corner above her head with a small explosion of powdered grit, and Jyn felt a brief — _deserved_ — flash of rage at Cassian for not trusting her with a gun. If she died because she was weaponless in a shootout…

But more importantly, whose side were they on? Jyn looked across the narrow space at Cassian, who’d drawn his gun and had it at the ready. Were they going to shoot Saul’s men to stop them from causing more damage than necessary? Or were they going to fire at the Germans, because the skirmish had already started, and between helping the French and the Germans, there was really only one choice they could have made?

Before she could make it for real, a resistance fighter fell with a spurting wound in his throat, his gun falling from twitching fingers and landing just an arm’s reach away. Jyn lunged for it. Her palm closed around the blood-slicked grip just before a bullet smashed into the spot where she’d been a second before, and she threw herself behind cover again.

“ _You!_ ” A German officer had her in his sights, and Jyn rolled, just barely missing the gunshot he’d aimed at her. Her pulse roaring in her ears, she squeezed the trigger and he fell with a spreading wound on his thigh, and she fired off a second shot into his chest before he could try again.

“Guess we know which side we’re on,” she said to Cassian.

Credit to him; he barely even blinked. “We need to move,” he said. “We have to get out of here before they think we’re part of Saul’s faction too.”

One of the lights exploded above their head, a dozen small holes peppering the plaster and raining dust on them both. “Easier said than done, Captain,” Jyn muttered. “You have a plan?”

Cassian shot twice, and a German officer rolled senseless onto the floor at his feet. “Working on one,” he said, and Jyn almost laughed at the sheer absurdity of the situation they’d found themselves in.

Their plan had been to encounter Saul’s men, an encounter that would hopefully lead to a quiet, unnoticed meeting.

Suffice it to say the plan had exploded — literally — far out of proportion in terms of its success.

Jyn glimpsed an opening as a faction member fell, and gestured for Cassian to follow her. “Come on,” she said, bending to steal a blunt truncheon from the dead officer’s belt.

Cassian ran behind her, dodging bodies and overturned furniture alike. The people left in the tavern were either panicked and trying to escape or stone dead and senseless, but they all had something in common — they were obstacles. Jyn and Cassian were forced to scatter at machine gunfire, each of them diving to opposite sides for cover. Jyn didn’t have time to worry about his ability to handle himself, and she was sure the feeling ran mutual.

In front of them, within sight of the door, a girl screeched — a single, shrill wail — that was cut off by the rapid _tap-tap_ of a Sten gun. She fell without a sound, blood smearing her lipstick, bullets in the front of her pretty red dress, and her friend — in spattered yellow — bent over her, weeping.

Jyn should have leapt over the body without a second glance. Saul’s methods were bloody, but she’d be damned if she’d let them be the reason she and Cassian didn’t make it out alive.

But the girl was her age — her dead friend too — and Jyn raced forward, grabbing the girl by the back of her dress and dragging her along into a run. “ _Move_ ,” she shouted, hating herself for being impatient, for having no sympathy at someone else’s stunned grief. “ _Move!_ ”

The girl stumbled along, barely keeping up, and Jyn half-hurled her towards the stairs leading up to the apartment above the tavern. “Stay out of sight,” she said, and glimpsed movement in her peripheral vision.

It was a resistance fighter, and Jyn almost left him alone, but he raised his gun at a target behind her, clearly branding collaborators as one of the enemy. The girl shrieked and scrambled up the stairs on her hands and knees, and Jyn — doubling back again — threw her elbow into the man’s nose and slammed him hard into a wall. Maybe it was a betrayal of family — he _was_ Saul’s, after all — but as far as she was concerned, she hadn’t been part of their world for years.

 _Fool_ , she thought, even though it applied to him just as much as it did to her.

No time for that. There was a shout in German as one of the officers sighted her, clearly mistaking her possession of weapons as a sign that she was an assassin too. Jyn kicked over one of the benches so that the surface landed perpendicular to the ground and dropped to her knees behind it. The bullets blew a neat row of concentric holes in the thick, polished wood, and she fired off another round of shots over the top. The chamber clicked, empty, and Jyn tossed it away with a grunt of frustration.

Cassian was nowhere to be seen — was he dead? Hurt? — and even though Jyn wanted to look for him, for reasons too urgent and contradictory to puzzle over, she had to deal with her situation first. She was pinned down, no assistance.

Not that she needed it. Jyn whipped out the black iron truncheon, the length expanding to match her forearm, and then some, listening for footsteps.

Another resistance fighter fell dead on the ground, and there was nothing. She could still hear the Germans, maybe around three or four, definitely more than Saul’s men — if there were any left. They were overturning tables with grunts of disgust, occasionally firing precautionary shots into bodies that looked like they might still be alive. Scanning what she could see of the room, she caught a flicker of movement. _Cassian_.

He lifted a finger to his lips, warning her with a look to stay still. He was crouched by the bar, where only she could see, telling her silently that he’d cover her from where he was.

Jyn didn’t doubt he would, but they were behind her now. The table overturned with a slam, and her instincts took over. They hadn’t been expecting her to be alive, unhurt, much less to be a woman. Surprise was a powerful advantage, and she used it with a vengeance. She went for the guns first, striking hard and fast until metal hit the ground, then to the softer targets like chests, knees, and throats. The truncheon was built for blunt impact, breaking fingers or wrists without prejudice, the weight of the metal compensating for shortfalls in physical strength.

A fist flew blindly towards her face, and she parried with a crushing swing that definitely broke bone, dodging another to sweep his legs out from under him with hers. She hit and crunched until there was only one disarmed officer left, and even he looked at her like she was purely mad. Maybe it was because she’d picked up a gun during the struggle, but insisted on using a blunt weapon anyway.

Jyn inhaled deeply to catch her breath, her muscles aching from the unrestrained ferocity of her attacks. “Come on then,” she said in German.

“Jyn!” Cassian’s warning shout was accompanied by a resistance fighter staggering towards them, his leg bent and splattering blood as he barreled towards them like a stampeding bull.

She saw the mottled round shape in his fist and realized what was about to happen.

“Hey!” she shouted, but never got to finish the thought.

There was a shot and the man went down, dead for real this time, the hand that had been about to toss the grenade pinned beneath his weight. Except —

Almost by accident, Jyn scanned the floor and found the pulled pin gleaming next to his other limp hand, slowly being swallowed by a spreading pool of blood.

“Get out of there!” Cassian yelled.

The only thing at Jyn’s back was the German officer and the front window of the tavern. Three out of five seconds gone now. She had to think fast, so she swore and did the first thing that came to mind. She grabbed the officer by the back of his collar and twisted him around towards the grenade, her grip tight enough to strangle, and braced for the explosion.

When it came, it hurt a lot less than she thought it would.

* * *

Cassian saw the faction member stagger from the middle of a pile of bloodied bodies like something from a horror picture, dogged and crazed with purpose in spite of the arterial wound in his thigh — holding a grenade in his hand. Straight towards the last remaining German officer, who’d just been about to face down Jyn.

Cassian was out of the blast radius and protected by solid cover, but he still shouted for her. “Jyn!”

She’d been fighting in a haze of furious efficiency, disarming and taking down at least four soldiers all by herself while armed with nothing but a truncheon, and for a breathless second he was worried she wouldn’t hear him.

Except she did, and the understanding dawned on her face.

Only she didn’t run.

There was a split-second choice to make, but Cassian made it in less. He took aim and shot the resistance fighter before he could get halfway across the room, and he let out a soft breath of relief when the man crashed facedown onto the floorboards, the grenade trapped along with his arm beneath the body.

The relief was short-lived, as soon as he realized — from the look on Jyn’s face — that the grenade was still live.

“Get out of there!” he shouted, and it was worse only because he knew it was probably too late.

Jyn probably knew too. But instead of running, she grabbed the officer by the back of his uniform and swung him around, like the last thing she meant to do was choke him to death, and before Cassian could stop her — the grenade went off.

The detonation was immediate and forceful, a shockwave that slammed him into the wall at his back. His ears were ringing when he got off the ground again, blinking at the red-tinted haze of dust and debris left by the explosion. Where Jyn and the officer had been was shrapnel-ridden floor and a gaping broken window, a ruin of twisted wood and blasted body parts. But he couldn’t care about that now, or whether there were survivors upstairs who might have seen their faces. None of that mattered.

Cassian raced out the door and to the front of the tavern, only to find the German officer lying glassy-eyed on the stones with spreading patches of dark red gleaming on his gray uniform. Jyn had used him as a shield from the blast, but there was no sign of movement underneath the officer’s body.

Cassian felt a tight ache somewhere in his ribs, and he was about to reach for the corpse when it twitched. Then, the German officer, still stone dead, rolled onto his face, and Jyn groaned beneath him, grimier and bloodier but amazingly — _beautifully_ — unharmed.

She cracked an eye at him. “All right?” she asked.

Cassian almost laughed with relief; he was nearly dizzy with it. “Could ask you the same.”

“Never better,” she grunted, and accepted his help to get back on her feet.

For a second, their hands stayed locked, because Cassian couldn’t quite believe they’d made it out alive, and more importantly — that _she_ had. Reckless, but more brave and resourceful than he’d given her credit for.

He wouldn’t make that mistake again, and he wanted to tell her so. But as always, there wasn’t the time.

So he let go, and they ran for it.

* * *

Jyn wasn’t bleeding anywhere (that she knew of), but getting thrown out a glass window and onto solid stone had its bruising qualities — even with an enemy soldier cushioning her from shrapnel fragments — and she was starting to lose her breath from sprinting immediately after the hard landing. Still, she pushed, because they could _not_ be caught at the place where German officers had been murdered in cold blood.

No, not murdered.

Assassinated.

She’d tried to stop Saul from making the mistake, but they’d failed.

The knowledge stung her worse than any wound ever could, and she gripped the gun she’d taken from one of the officers with cramped, bloodstained fingers. They made it about as far as the alley before someone shouted at them in German, in a voice ringing with authority.

“You there! Halt!”

Jyn and Cassian both froze, and she had no doubt that he was imagining the sound of a firing squad.

But it sounded like the officer had made the fatal mistake of coming alone.

 _Well_.

Jyn whirled, the gun in her hand, and pointed it at the only thing to mark a target — a gray uniform — before pulling the trigger.

Two things: the gun was empty, and she was firing at a familiar face.

“ _Kay_.” Cassian was breathing hard. “ _Menos mal._ I thought I told you to wait with Han.”

The exclamation went ignored, as Kay (dressed in full _Wehrmacht_ uniform, same as the first day they’d met) looked indignantly between Jyn and the useless gun. “You were actually going to shoot me, weren’t you?”

Jyn let the emptied pistol fall to the ground and kicked it out of the way, too tired to care. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

Kay was looking hard at her, and she decided it was probably the blood. “It’s not mine,” she panted, just in case he was concerned. “Mostly.”

“Things got interesting at the tavern,” Cassian added, in a supreme example of understatement she might have corrected, if she wasn’t conserving her energy for more sprinting.

Understatement notwithstanding, it was as though Kay’s worst suspicions had been confirmed, and he grabbed Jyn firmly by the arm and began to march her towards the alley. “I’ll deal with you later, young lady. Come on, from the sound of it — you’ve made a downright mess of your attempt to _blend in_. Maybe next time you’ll think twice about asking me to stay behind.”

Her relief at seeing Kay was undeniable, but Jyn gave herself and Cassian a hasty sweep, cataloguing injuries and anything that would look suspicious to the reasonably alert enemy officer. Both of them had soot smears from the grenade blast (in her case, she probably looked like she’d climbed out a coal mine), various incriminating blood stains (again, her especially), and all the injuries to suggest they’d been in some kind of struggle. Cassian had a fresh cut above his eyebrow, another on his cheek, while Jyn’s knuckles were scraped raw from throwing punches, and her lower lip throbbed from a fresh split.

“What’s your plan — you’re going to pretend we’re your friends?” Jyn said, pointedly. “Unless you haven’t noticed, we don’t exactly look like German military.”

“He could pretend we’re Gestapo informants,” Cassian suggested, keeping pace with them while he checked behind to make sure they weren’t being trailed. “Or worst comes to worst —”

He trailed off at the rumble of engines, and the three of them went still at the armored cars, unequivocally emblazoned with the German military insignias, passing them on the way to the scene of the skirmish.

 _Fantastic._ Just when Jyn thought their luck couldn’t have gotten any more spectacular. “It’s worse,” she murmured, and received a warning hiss to stay quiet.

Kay saluted like any German officer, and Jyn whipped her hands behind her back to pretend she was in irons, noting out the corner of her eye that Cassian did the same.

They _almost_ scraped by, except for the one bringing up the rear. It rolled to a stop, and a trench-coated captain climbed out, followed by half a dozen armed guards. “What’s this, lieutenant?” he asked. “Who are these people?”

Kay saluted again, stiff-backed and unsmiling. He’d snapped into the role of the quintessential German lieutenant like it was a second skin, and even Jyn (who’d never seen it firsthand and was disinclined to be impressed with Kay’s _anything_ ) felt a tiny glimmer of relief, that they might actually have a chance.

“I arrested them at the scene of the crime, captain,” Kay said. “There was an incident at a local tavern, and I found these vagrants trying to escape as I arrived. They looked like bystanders, but I thought it would be safer to take them in for questioning.”

The captain raised one eyebrow. “Admirable instinct, lieutenant, but you should have stayed at your station. Now hand these two over to us, and produce your papers for inspection — I want to have a word with your commanding officer.”

“Yes sir, but —” Kay didn’t let go of Jyn’s arm, courteously, delicately prodding the subject “— surely the priority for you is to secure whatever survivors you can from the unfortunate incident?”

Jyn felt Cassian wince.

“Do not question a superior officer’s orders, _lieutenant_ ,” barked the captain. “I will have you shot for insubordination if you cross me again.”

“Sir, she’s —” One of the guards was peering at her, and Jyn held her breath, hoping it didn’t mean she’d been recognized as anyone in relation to _Erso_. “She’s a woman.”

_Not good, but not terrible._

“Oh yes, I thought she might be suspicious — she was wearing men’s clothes when I found her,” Kay lied coolly. “French people are so strange.”

The captain jerked his head at the guards, and they moved to secure the prisoners. Jyn tightened her grip around the truncheon behind her back, wishing she’d picked up an actual loaded gun, but Cassian was looking sidelong at her, and he moved his head from side to side once. _Don’t_.

She wondered if he’d already given up, seeing how they were outnumbered, and outmatched.

She wondered if he was trying to tell her to use her cyanide capsule, the easy way out. They were caught now.

Jyn lifted her head to look the captain in the eye. He was still watching Kay in evident dislike, unaware that she was silently rehearsing how quickly she could take him out before the guards at his side — six in all — shot her for trying to fight back.

One Nazi captain wouldn’t make much of a difference in the war, but…

Cassian was speaking in French, doing very well at sounding bewildered as to why they were being arrested. “We weren’t involved in what happened — we were just passing —”

It still got his wrists clapped in irons anyway, and another one was coming towards her. Jyn dug her heel into the ground, bracing for the attack. If he so much as touched her —

_Thunk. Thunk._

Jyn’s arm was just poised to whip out in a neck-breaking strike, but she paused at the unfamiliar sound. All of them looked, in the falling dusk, at a single figure moving towards them from the steps of an abandoned church.

“Blessed be the name of the Lord, now and forever,” said a deep, echoing voice that Jyn had heard somewhere before. “Let them go, captain, for they are innocent of wrongdoing. The Lord guides their steps, and they walk in His light.”

“What is this?” the captain snapped.

“The local madman,” one of the soldiers scoffed. “He sits in front of his ruined church and preaches all day — like a stray mutt who won’t run when people throw stones.”

The hooded man ignored them. “The Lord is with me on this day, and I am with Him,” he said calmly, and planted his staff where he stood, squarely in front of the armored car like there was nothing to fear.

Then he lifted his head, and Jyn saw why. His eyes were a milky, sightless gray, and from the way they roved without direction around the scene in front of him, she knew it wasn’t a trick of the light.

 _Blind_ , or as good as.

And he was trying to help them.

“A _blind_ madman,” said the captain scornfully. “Step aside, or we’ll arrest you for public disorder.”

“Do as he says,” Jyn found herself saying, in inexplicable — silent — desperation. “Leave us.”

The man only smiled. He clearly wasn’t a local, but she only saw the friendly lines in his sun-browned skin, the kind — almost habitual — tilt to his head. “I do not fear for myself,” he answered, in a different voice meant for her. “For I am guided by the Lord.”

The captain sighed in impatience. “Enough of this. Shoot him — and leave his body in front of the church as an example.”

Jyn backed away until she felt Kay at her shoulders. _No_.

Two guards stayed on Cassian and Jyn, leaving the other four to have their rifles cocked, ready to fire, but when the first volley came, there was no body to fall on the stones, no blood to seep into the cracks. The priest moved faster than anyone could have expected, and his staff sliced through the air like a whip. Two rifles went flying into the dark, Cassian attacked the guard standing near him, and Jyn seized her chance to lunge at the captain. Kay could handle the guard meant to be watching her — she wanted _him_.

Her truncheon caught her target in the ribs, followed by a solid whack into the silver army crest at his shoulder, and when he fell back, gasping, she brought the length of the weapon down into the bend of his neck, smashing and repeating the crushing blows until the smirking, cold-eyed captain was lying facedown and still at her feet.

Her whole body was throbbing, aching and at near-exhaustion, but she wasn’t done.

_Have to help him._

Maybe it was the fatigue, or the disorientation of being too focused on her fight, but it didn’t seem like the priest needed much help. As she watched, he caught a soldier by his arm and twisted simultaneously out of the path of a bullet, leaving it to ricochet off — completely by chance — to hit a third of his uniformed comrades. The staff was clearly made of wood, but the way he wielded it seemed to give the weapon the heft and striking power of an iron truncheon. Again and again he ducked, and swung, like a dancer in an impossible story, until only he was left standing.

A flicker of movement. One of the soldiers was still conscious, and he reached for his gun.

A single shot caught him at the back of the head, and he fell face-forward onto the ground. They all turned towards the source of the shot — apart from the man, who smiled calmly like he’d known all along it would come (how could a priest smile at murder?), bracing his palms against the staff.

“Close one, my friend,” he said. “You almost shot me.”

A gruff voice gave a growl of disgruntlement. “You’re welcome, Chirrut.”

The man that emerged looked more bear than human, untidy hair in woven braids and a hood he’d pulled down as though to have it out of the way when he shot. No uniform, no priest’s habit, but he was helping them, along with his blind friend. His grizzled face looked like it had seen war before, not just because of the scar that cut across his eyebrow or his tanned cheek, but the look in his deep-set eyes. Wary, and jaded.

_What on earth was going on?_

“Who are you?” Cassian asked, as the second man gestured for him to hold out his hands.

The question went ignored, and the man grabbed him by the wrists. “ _Out_ ,” he grumbled irritably, and shot through the link holding the cuffs together. The metal plinked away into the dark.

“Rogue team, I assume,” said the man he’d called Chirrut. His head was turned towards Jyn now, even though she hadn’t spoken, and he looked almost amused. “Didn’t they tell you we were coming?”

Jyn looked around, and saw that Cassian and Kay weren’t any less nonplussed than she was. “You’re…” Cassian said, clearly having some trouble with his disbelief “…operatives. We were told there were agents in the city, but —”

“Only of a sort,” Chirrut smiled. “Baze and I are here to assist in whatever way we can to speed your meeting with Saul Guerra.”

The bear-like man — Baze — whirled suddenly, his rifle directed into the dark. “Before or after his fighters kill us?” he asked, in a perfectly flat voice.

The shadows were moving towards them, rapid and too many to fight. No uniforms — not German, then — but Jyn picked up the strong smell of blood and explosives, and she guessed it had something to do with the fate of the armored cars that had sped off to the tavern. A dim part at the back of her mind had been wondering about the possible survival of the German Lieutenant Colonel — she guessed the armed support meant they’d finished the job.

 _German._ There was only one uniform left standing, and —

“ _Really_ ,” Kay snapped, as the men surrounded them, guns drawn.

“Stop!” Cassian had moved faster than anyone had expected, putting himself in front of his friend, and Jyn had done the same, so quickly that she stumbled into Kay, her arms raised in her haste to stop them from shooting. “ _Wait_ ,” she said. “He’s not an officer — he’s with us.”

Whether it worked, she wasn’t sure, because the faceless men surged forward to separate her from Kay and Cassian. Someone grabbed her by the shoulders, another by the arms, yanking her forward into the throng and with enough force to bring her to her knees. Behind her, she heard Cassian grunt and Kay’s noise of indignation at being manhandled, along with the less distinctive noises of Chirrut and Baze being restrained too. Jyn felt a stab of panic at the scrape of a gag descending past her face, and twisted out of its path. “ _Stop_ ,” she said, in a voice that rang fierce, fierce enough to make the hands stall at the ingrained authority — authority she hadn’t used in years. “We’re not who you think we are.”

One of them, cloth pulled across his nose and mouth to mask his features, stepped forward to crouch in front of her. “You may not be German, but one of you killed our fighters,” he said. “That makes you an enemy.”

Jyn’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Call us what you want,” she said. “Just remember that Saul Guerra won’t be happy if he finds out you hurt me — or my friends.”

A shiver traveled the circle around them, as though the very name had power. Jyn remembered how the group worked, how fearful they were of the man who led them, but her trick didn’t earn them more than a few seconds, and the squad’s captain pressed forward again. “And why is that, traitor?” he spat.

Jyn threw her head back, letting them see her face. “Because my name is Jyn Erso,” she said defiantly. “I think you might remember me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Chirrut and Baze have shown up too, yay! Again, sorry for the wait.  
> I also decided to keep their names as is, because they're awesome, and I can't call Chirrut "Chiro" or something like that. Personal preference. Anyway, they'll have more time with Jyn and the others in the next chapter, and there'll be more backstory to the pair.
> 
> Now onto the stuff Cassian said in Spanish:  
> \- Cabrón was to call Han a bastard (but quietly :D)  
> \- Menos mal means something like "thank goodness".
> 
> I'm just gonna add a quick disclaimer about other languages that crop up in the fic. I'm bilingual, but to my everlasting regret and sorrow, one of those languages is not Spanish, French or German (*shakes fist*). So...yeah. I'm trying my best. Honestly, if you can help out with translations (especially if you know what people in 1940 talked like), that would be SO GREAT. My intention isn't to offend anyone, just treat my mistakes as an unintentional funny.  
> Okay, I'm done now. Until the next update :)


	9. Divided They Stand

Something hurt in Jyn’s body.

Correction: _everything_ hurt in Jyn’s body.

She had a bag over her head, and it had been there since they’d been bundled into trucks. Her hands were restrained with coarse rope that chafed at her wrists in time to each bump in the uneven road, and her fingers were stiff from cold.

In unpleasant contrast, her face was hot, partially from breathing and re-breathing the stale air within the confines of musty-smelling sackcloth.

Cassian wasn’t on the same truck, or Kay. There were more than enough resistance fighters to keep the five of them under control, and Jyn knew Saul’s patterns. She may not have been to this hideout before, but the protocols and plans never deviated much, wherever they went. They’d split the trucks up, have them take different routes to confuse pursuers, until they eventually reached a safe location for the rendezvous.

Jyn hunched over in an attempt to find some semblance to a comfortable position, resting her flushed face on her aching knees. She could feel the crystal pendant against her skin, cool as a dewdrop in comparison to her heated neck and throat. It was impossible to sleep, though she probably could have if she closed her eyes, just out of sheer exhaustion. She wondered if Cassian and the others were being left alone, or if they were being beaten for killing one of Saul’s. It wasn’t unlikely; Saul wanted his fighters brutal, he preferred it that way. It lowered the chances of them showing mercy to the enemy.

It should have been a case of simple loyalties. The unnamed, faceless man that Cassian had killed might have been a family member to her once — she might even have known his brother or his sister, mother or father, all conscripted in the righteous fight against the enemy, but Jyn couldn’t remember. She didn’t want to, and remembering how they’d lashed out like rabid animals against the people in the tavern, innocent or guilty — she found that she couldn’t feel sorry that Cassian had shot one of them to save her.

One of the men said something in French (his accent was thick, provincial) before the truck ground to a halt. Jyn looked up, but she didn’t hear anything except a ringing silence as her ears accustomed themselves to quiet again, and when it faded, the sounds of a wooded environment. A bird cried somewhere, and another responded, setting off a chorus through the trees.

Men were climbing from the truck, but she heard a _thump_ of a warning hit to stay put — and a guttural grunt in response.

So she hadn’t been alone after all.

“Are you all right?” she asked, and heard them stir at her question.

“Baze is _all right_ if he gets to doze off,” Chirrut said, and Jyn picked up the twang of American in his English. Not New York or Massachusetts — somewhere further west. “You’ve been sleeping, haven’t you, Baze?”

A semi-familiar grunt. So Baze had been the one they’d hit. “I _was_.”

Jyn almost laughed at how inhumanly calm they both were. “So you’re…not a priest?” she said.

There was a rustle, like Chirrut had shaken his head. “I spent my childhood around enough of them to mimic their ways, and I was assigned to guard a chaplain during the first war — the Great War, as you English call it.”

“I’m not English,” Jyn corrected, more out of reflex than because she actually cared. “So you’re an agent? For who? The Americans?”

“America’s still neutral,” Baze rumbled, like there was a distinction to be had. “We may be American, but we’re not involved.”

“Not officially,” Chirrut added. “We volunteered to help the Resistance.”

Jyn mulled it over. “But you’re… _blind_ ,” she said, in the absence of a more tactful way to broach the subject. “Does the Resistance…”

Chirrut chuckled.

“The fool’s only mostly blind,” Baze said, while his friend took his time being amused. “Our platoon encountered a gas attack while we were at the Front, and he decided to save the Father he was guarding before himself — by the time we got him a mask, it was too late. Permanent damage to his eyes. _Idiot_.”

The last part was almost affectionate, but none of this was explaining very much to Jyn at all, and as though Chirrut sensed her continuing curiosity, he added: “Getting cleared is only about passing a few tests. Tests are nothing if you’ve got good instincts for the right answers.”

“Chirrut convinced the fools upstairs to take him. Helped that I said I’d go wherever he went.” Baze stretched out again with a heavy grunt. “Even to this place.”

Seeing what Chirrut did in the face of armed soldiers with nothing except a stick and his four limbs, Jyn more or less got the idea of what might have convinced higher-ups like Draven that Chirrut was a good operative.

“The best secret weapons don’t look like weapons at all, I suppose,” Jyn answered, finally.

“They don’t, do they?” Chirrut said cheerfully. “Baze is the best sharpshooter on the West Coast, but you wouldn’t be able to tell just by looking at him.”

As a matter of fact, Jyn could, but she decided not to correct Chirrut, since Baze also looked like someone who would happily snap necks with his bare arms.

A silence fell again, and it was only broken when Chirrut asked, “Would you happen to know why they’ve stopped?”

“Maybe they’ve decided to shoot us after all,” Baze volunteered, sounding only ambivalent at the prospect of death.

Jyn shook her head. “They’re probably waiting for the others,” she guessed. “They split the trucks up in case we were being followed.”

“You know how these men think,” Chirrut observed. “Saul Guerra is an old friend of yours, I assume?”

Jyn felt a twinge somewhere in her side, and she felt more tired than ever. Too tired not to tell the truth. “More like a father,” she admitted. “Well, he _was._ ”

Chirrut didn’t say anything, but she heard him move, and a callused hand found hers. He was restrained, just as she was, not to mention a stranger, yet Jyn didn’t pull away.

Maybe she was more exhausted than she’d thought.

Or just scared, and finally able to admit it to herself.

“Fools,” Baze grumbled, and rolled over to go back to sleep.

* * *

“Cassian, will please you sit _still_?” Kay said irritably. “You’re giving _me_ chafing injuries.”

“Where’s Jyn?” Cassian said, trying to hear something over the rumble of the engine. “Did they take her somewhere else?”

“I’d do my best to answer you, but seeing as I had an identical sack over my head — I can’t say,” his friend answered. They were speaking in Spanish to minimize the risks of being overhead, but even in another language, Kay still managed to inflect every syllable with copious sarcasm. “She knows these people, doesn’t she? Besides, if they’d taken her anywhere she didn’t want to be, we would’ve heard her kicking and scratching from a mile away.”

None of it particularly reassured Cassian, but the truck hit a bump in the road, and the impact made them both groan. He’d hit his head on one of the steel supports at the back of the truck, an uncushioned blow despite the bag covering his skull, and judging by the sound of it, Kay was having to pull himself back upright after falling over.

A pause. Then —

“Why isn’t she here with us?” he asked, and his friend sighed in exasperation.

“ _Quiet_ ,” one of the men hissed in guttural French, and the butt of a rifle collided with his calf, leaving a stinging welt in its wake.

“Tell us where she is, then,” Cassian said, in French this time. “Where’s Jyn Erso?”

The men were murmuring to each other now, and there was a stir. “My friend says you’re the one who killed Louis,” said a different voice.

“Oh dear,” Kay said, and switched rapidly to French. “Gentlemen, please. We don’t want any trouble.”

A gun prodded at Cassian’s leg again. “Answer the question. Did you kill him?”

The question was meant to stir guilt, and maybe Cassian was meant to feel it — he had shot a resistance fighter who’d been part of an attack on the Germans. They had a common enemy, and he’d killed a man meant to be an unspoken ally.

But the same man would have killed Jyn with that grenade, and nothing epitomized the problems with Saul Guerra’s men as much as that. They were careless, indiscreet, and they treated the existence of an enemy as sufficient reason to justify vicious and ill-considered attacks, collateral damage to fellow oppressed notwithstanding.

Cassian wasn’t sorry for killing the unnamed fighter, not just because he’d taken life before, but because it had been to protect Jyn.

Instincts told Cassian to bite his tongue and feign ignorance, but he straightened his spine, turning his head towards the source of the voice. “Where is Jyn Erso?”

Something hard cracked across his face, and the force of the hit threw him against Kay. “Really, we’re all on the same side — I must protest —”

“Kay, it’s all right,” Cassian grunted, past the throbbing in his cheek, and they hauled him back up. “Don’t —”

A boot thudded into his arm, a misaimed blow meant for his ribs. Cassian toppled over again, landing hard on the steel. He was the object of frustration, and they were done holding back.

“Cassian!”

“The Erso girl can’t protect you,” hissed his attackers. “Only Saul Guerra decides the fate of traitors to the cause.”

“We’re not traitors,” Kay spat, in a rare loss of outward composure. “You —”

Cassian blocked another kick aimed for his face, but another landed in his back just as quickly, skewing his balance.

“Tell that to _him_ ,” they said.

Another fist came his way, and this time Cassian didn’t dodge fast enough. The punch slammed his head into something hard, and everything went black.

* * *

Jyn’s limbs were stiff and uncooperative, and when she forced her legs to stretch to their full length, she felt the muscles protest from the exertion of taking on a tavern full of hostile fighters. If she’d been on her way back from a successful mission with Saul’s men, there’d be hot water (not much, but some) to soothe aches, homemade salves that stung and watered her eyes. There’d be strong-smelling food from any number of unnamed countries of origin — good, and more importantly, _hot_ — followed by a long talk with Saul Guerra until the candles burned low, just listening to the hoarse, eloquent voice crafting arguments and telling stories.

It had been years since she’d let herself imagine what it might be like, and she reached with her bound hands towards her collar, feeling for the leather cord and the crystal. This was her now, the only thing that remained constant through her turbulent life.

She didn’t need Saul Guerra. She didn’t need anybody. She didn’t…

“That’s a strange necklace you have,” Chirrut said suddenly.

Jyn assumed he’d fallen asleep like Baze, before realizing that there was even less of a chance that he might have seen her crystal — what with being mostly blind and sitting with a sack over his head.

“How do you know I have a necklace?” she asked. The words sounded slurred to her, or maybe it was her imagination.

“How does anyone know things?” Chirrut said, in a faintly playful manner she suspected she’d have to get used to. “I trust what my senses tell me, and you, Jyn Erso, have a necklace around your throat.”

“What is it, then?” Jyn said, interested in spite of her tiredness. “It’s as close to a magic show as I’ll be getting.”

Chirrut inhaled, as though he was thinking. Either that, or he’d found a way to smell elements. “Some kind of stone,” he said. “A crystal. It sounds…different. Unique.”

“ _Sounds_?” Jyn repeated. “You can hear crystals?”

Chirrut didn’t seem particularly elated at getting the right answer, like he’d known all along that he had it. “Most things have a sound, the way they respond to the things around them. Stones usually whisper, they echo noises around them, but your crystal — whatever it is — it _sings_.”

Jyn didn’t even know if he was teasing her. “ _Sings_ ,” she said. “Right.”

“Leave him be,” Baze rumbled. “Either he’s right, or he’s wrong. Don’t encourage him.”

“Your faith in me is touching,” Chirrut said, gently playful again.

“Faith,” came the scornful answer. “I don’t know how you manage to keep it, after all this time.”

The exchange was private, almost like the ones between Cassian and Kay, except shaded with something a little different, an element she couldn’t quite pin down. It was still familiar, just…not quite the same thing. “I thought you said you weren’t a priest,” Jyn pointed out, unable to help herself.

“Just because I’m not a priest doesn’t mean I don’t believe,” Chirrut replied. “And I do believe in a higher power. Something much greater than all of us.”

“Let me know when He or She decides to help get us out of this mess,” Baze muttered, clearly close to resuming his nap.

“Shh.” Jyn sat up straighter, more sluggishly than she’d have liked because of her aching muscles. “I hear engines.”

Chirrut listened too. “Indeed. Their compatriots must have caught up with us.”

Jyn tucked her necklace away in a hurry when she heard footsteps scattering fallen leaves. “Get out,” ordered a rough voice. “Move.”

She stumbled clumsily from the back of the truck, unable to see where she stepped, and someone tore the hood off — along with a chunk of her hair, by the feel of it — before shoving her again. “ _Move_.”

Jyn scanned her surroundings, sucking in breaths of cold, unhampered air. They were in a forest — a _real_ forest. At first, waiting in open air with vehicles seemed like an incredibly unsafe thing to do, but now that she could see, the trees were grown so thickly, so densely overhead that she didn’t imagine any overhead fliers would be able to spot them if they tried.

“Really, this is _appalling_ behavior,” said a voice from nearby, and Jyn felt a gush of relief.

“Kay? Are you —”

Kay came stalking into view, prodded along by a pair of Saul’s men. He looked deeply displeased about something, but before Jyn could finish forming her question, Cassian appeared from the recesses of a truck, except —

There was a forming bruise on his jaw, and bootprints on him from where he’d been kicked. The cut on above his eyebrow and his cheek were from the tavern fight, but something had made them bleed worse than they should have. Their gazes locked and there was relief there, but Jyn’s was already swimming with red, and she whirled on the spot, rounding on the group of Saul’s men.

“I said my friends weren’t supposed to be harmed!” she snapped.

She searched the crowd for a target and alighted on a tall fighter wearing a red band around his sleeve, Saul’s mark of a captain. His authority was further proved by the others grabbing her arms in restraint when she took a step, as though they knew she’d fly at their leader if she could.

“Jyn,” Cassian said, he was as close to her as they’d let him. “It’s all right. They didn’t harm us.”

“Oh, I think you’ll find that they _did_ ,” Kay interjected. “They seem to think Cassian killed one of theirs.”

“He did,” Jyn said, making sure the leader heard every word. “But he did it to protect me. Your man was unskilled, and _sloppy_ — Saul Guerra doesn’t tolerate either of those things.”

There it was, the unforgiving voice of Saul’s lieutenant again, and the crackling fury of it lashed at them like a whip, making the less experienced ones wince. The veterans just stared back at her with hardened eyes, reluctant to submit to her unofficial authority, but loath to challenge it directly — not someone who was affiliated with Saul, who had been as good as a daughter to him.

Which was exactly what she’d been counting on.

“You want to see Saul Guerra, don’t you?” said the captain, and Jyn gave a terse nod in response. “Then _walk_.”

Jyn glanced back to make sure that they were following, and one by one, they fell into step behind her as Saul’s resistance led them into the trees.

“Is that how you used to speak to them — when you were still with Guerra?” Cassian asked in an undertone, looking at their surroundings while they tramped through the leaves.

Jyn shrugged. “Maybe. Why?”

Cassian’s face was bruised, and she recognized the strains of fatigue in every line of him, but his quiet smile made all of it matter a little less, just for a second. “Nothing,” he answered. “I’m starting to see why they remember you.”

* * *

The walk through the forest might have been thirty minutes, maybe more, but to a group of exhausted, battered people, time stretched as long and slow as syrup. Jyn felt something in her side — more noticeable than the normal aches and pain of worn muscles — but it was hidden underneath the grime-and-bloodstained layers she was wearing, out of reach. Maybe it was a bruised rib. She’d have to take a look later, if she got the chance. But she wanted to sleep. Most of all, sleep.

Only she couldn’t, because they were taking her to see Saul first, just as she’d asked.

Jyn felt her pulse pick up again, with something that felt almost like panic. What was she going to say to him? Rail at him for abandoning her — before they got to any official business? All this time, dealing with his men and his missions, she’d gambled on the fact that he was as stubborn and set in his ways as she remembered, that no great change had occurred while she was gone.

It might have hurt her too much to imagine that he had, and she hadn’t been around to witness it.

Saul clearly had a vision for the fate of the real French Resistance, and it was padded out with bloody fighting and brutal strikes — as shocking and wounding as the snap of a snake from tall grass — unlike the covert intelligence-gathering, radioed messages and silent sabotage that was General Draven’s, or whoever else ran the division. They wanted to wait, and watch, and learn. He wanted to burn, raze, and destroy. If the French couldn’t have their country, the Germans wouldn’t either. Like the stories of defeated villagers burning their homes and killing themselves in order to escape an invading army. Scorched earth, mutual destruction rather than defeat.

How could a man like that be convinced to cooperate?

Arms. He’d get better weapons if he joined with the rest of the factions. Judging by the scars she’d seen — faces, hands, limbs — the quality of weapons they’d been able to get their hands on fell short of satisfactory. Training was lacking too, that was evident in the way they’d handled the attack — clumsy compared to the neat, methodical precision that assassinations were meant to run on. Equipment didn’t just pertain to arms. Every resistance needed radio, transmission machines…maybe she could get promises for that…

Absorbed in her thoughts, Jyn’s foot slipped on a root, and she almost lost her balance. “ _Careful_ ,” Cassian said, a hand around her arm.

“Thanks,” she muttered. “Are you all right?”

He grunted. “Don’t worry about me. Focus on the meeting with Guerra.”

A less spent version of Jyn might have rebuffed the suggestion that she was worried about Cassian, but said version was the only one she had left, and she got straight to the point. “I am,” she admitted. “I still don’t know what I want to say to him. All I can think of is offering him benefits to join — radio, guns, training — which he won’t accept.”

“Won’t he?”

They were both murmuring, careful of being overheard. The risk was lower since they spoke in English, and she remembered how few of Saul’s men had spoken it fluently.

Jyn shook her head. “He’s an idealist — a fanatic, whatever you’d call him — he can’t just switch his position because you’re offering him something. He’ll say it’s bribery. Compromising his morals.”

“You’re right,” Cassian sounded like he was deep in thought. “But you said your name, and his men scrambled to get you to him.”

Jyn was confused. “So?”

“It sounds to me like they know you’re different to Saul Guerra,” Cassian said, with the detached reasoning of an intelligence operative. “Accorded special status. Maybe what you could offer him is…reconciliation. Not just weapons or technology. He’d be getting his daughter back.”

Jyn shook her head again, to the point where she started feeling dizzy. “That’s not Saul — he was never that kind of father to me.”

Cassian didn’t answer, but Jyn noticed that the man in front of them had crouched in front of what looked like a bed of leaves at the foot of a hill. His hands rustled through the undergrowth, until he seized something and pulled, something that moved with a creak of metal

A hatch.

The man jerked his head at them, an electric torch in his hand. “In there,” he said, and Jyn ducked her head to enter the dark.

Soil gradually became dust, and then they were walking on stone, through twisting caverns that seemed to take them deeper and deeper into the earth. Except the air — far from stale — continued to shift towards them in a state of constant motion, high and cold and clear.

Jyn realized where they were at the first glimpse of daylight. Dawn, to be precise. There was a hole in the rock face, a natural lookout, and she saw the sprawl of the valley beneath them, realizing —

“We’re in the mountain,” Kay said, sounding as incredulous as she’d ever heard.

Another push, and Jyn found herself in a larger cave connected to the caverns, one that had half its side carved away into a steep drop that led to the valley. The contrast of daylight made her eyes hurt after being in the dark throughout the journey, and she was so busy blinking that she didn't hear the stir of movement at her back, the thud of a stick…

“ _Jyn_ ,” said a voice she never thought she’d hear again. “Jyn Erso.”

Jyn stared sightlessly at Cassian’s curious expression — he was looking behind her — and turned, slowly, as though it was a nightmare she didn’t want to face.

Saul looked like he hadn’t aged a day since she last saw him, his dusky skin lined and creased in the exact same places she remembered. His stick was a shock to her at first, though he did his best to hide it, leaning on it in a way that turned what should have been a sign of disability into a symbol of strength and gravitas, to anyone who didn’t know him like she did. There was more gray in his beard, but his eyes were still as sharp and hungry as ever, and they traveled over her face, taking her in, as though to see what had become of the warrior girl he’d trained to carry his hopes and dreams.

Jyn realized that he was waiting for her to speak. To recognize him too.

But the words caught in her throat, and Jyn felt suddenly faint — more aware than ever that the floor beneath her feet was unsteady. She fell forward on one knee, bracing her side, and it was only when her hand slipped out from underneath her jacket did she notice the faint red staining on her fingertips. Fresh blood, not just what she’d picked up on her clothes. It dawned on her, a little too late. Not a bruised rib. The blast — the grenade — she’d missed —

“ _Oh_ ,” she breathed, and the realization made her limbs buckle, as though her body was done unknowingly bearing her burden.

“Jyn?” said Cassian. He might have tried to get to her, but there was a bark of an order to stay back, because Saul was coming forward to see for himself.

“Jyn, what’s the matter?” Saul moved towards her, his stick cracking against the stone so loudly — rapid, cacophonous — that it made her flinch. If it were made of flint, she was sure that it would have struck sparks, and Saul would have made them burn. Concern was in his eyes, and the casual hypocrisy of it made Jyn pull herself away on her hands, even though they shook from trying to bear her weight.

Where was he when she’d been delirious from a fever in Marrakech? When she’d had to patch her leg back up stitch by agonizing stitch, after cutting it open during a chase through the back streets of Warsaw, losing the four policeman after her in the process?

 _Not there_ , because he’d dropped her like a piece of cargo. Something that cost more to carry than it was worth.

The memories surged against the barriers she’d forced them behind, like a raging river that refused to be tamed, and her response burst from her lips with a vengeance. Her anger was a force of nature, and in her hurt, all she could do was make sure he saw it.

“Don’t touch me,” she snarled, when he bent to reach for her. “ _Don’t touch me._ ”

She’d pressed an arm protectively across her middle, only vaguely aware of voices that weren’t Saul’s or her own, adamant of just one thing — that she didn’t want the man who’d abandoned her to help her, never again. Not him. He could look as distressed, as worried, as scared as he liked, but it wouldn’t make run to him like she was ten years old again. Never.

“Don’t touch me,” she repeated, until the words started to lose their meaning.

Her vision was failing her, black seeping like ink to blur out the edges of the picture. A circle of people had formed around her, but no one — not even Saul — dared to disobey while she looked at them with hate.

There was a small scuffle in the background, followed by a shout: “ _Jyn!_ ”

It wasn’t Saul, but she knew the voice, and when a blurred shape pushed forward to break the buffer, she didn’t fight back. “Jyn, can you hear me?”

There was a hand on her face now, another feeling for her pulse, and she knew it wasn’t Saul’s for sure. It wasn’t blistered or mottled by scars, cool where her skin felt overheated, flushed. She didn’t want fire; she wanted the cool and dark and shadow. She wanted —

Jyn was slipping into unconsciousness fast, but she could have sworn, in a moment of unsubstantiated certainty, that the hand belonged to Cassian (wasn’t he supposed to be bound too?), and it was his voice that she heard shouting, just before her eyes lost the fight to keep themselves open, and the chaos around her cut abruptly to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er...sorry. Now I know something like this didn't happen in the movie, but hey, it's an AU.  
> Until the next update :)


	10. Pieced Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahahaha sorry about the cliffhanger. It's the last one, I swear.

Jyn floated, too light for dreams, too heavy for stupor. Lights flickered behind her closed eyes, but she didn’t see.

* * *

Cassian swore when his hand came away from Jyn’s side coated in thin sheen of red. The clothes she wore were thick and fitted, and they’d acted as a kind of binding to staunch the bleeding until it got too bad to hide. It was impossible to tell how deep the wound went, or whether the physical exertion of fighting and the long trek to the hideout after the fact had only exacerbated the injury.

She’d passed out, a small mercy only because it stopped her from snarling at anyone who tried to get close, and she was still breathing. One of the few good signs in a day full of things going from bad to worse. “Is there somewhere we can take her?” he asked.

No one answered him.

“This is absolutely ridiculous,” Kay snapped, clearly in the middle of an argument. “The girl’s our responsibility — our operative — now get rid of these restraints before I use _your_ teeth to do it myself!”

Kay pushed his way forward — dropping a coil of severed rope to one side — and felt efficiently for Jyn’s pulse, then the temperature of her forehead. “What happened?” he asked. “Was she shot?”

“Grenade.” Cassian was thinking, fast. _Foolish_ , _impulsive_. Not her, him. After the explosion, he’d taken her word for it that she wasn’t hurt. Maybe Jyn herself hadn’t even noticed — being as single-minded as she was, and he had no doubts whatsoever that Saul Guerra would have consumed her attention, made it impossible to notice a worsening injury until it was too late.

But there wasn’t time for that. He was mentally cataloging what medical supplies he had on him — apart from some bandages in his pack and a palm-sized case of sulfa for emergency disinfection in his jacket, the bulk of the supplies were still at the morgue, and Han wouldn’t have stayed, knowing they’d missed the meeting time. Cassian didn’t fault him for that, what he _did_ fault was the circle of strangers — so-called resistance fighters — standing mutely by while one of theirs bled out.

Maybe that was the point. Jyn _wasn’t_ one of theirs anymore.

“Is there somewhere we can take her?” he asked, looking from one unresponsive face to another. No one answered, and he realized there was only one person who might still save Jyn.

Saul Guerra, who was watching the scene in front of him with an expression of impenetrable calm.

“Is there somewhere Jyn can go?” Cassian demanded, not shouting, just close to it. Silence, and he tried again, searching for pressure points, short and succinct ways to make helping Jyn worth his while.

The man was stunned and hiding it well, but this was his adopted daughter appearing out of nowhere, changed and hostile with unresolved bitterness, now in a precarious condition because of a wound none of them had managed to anticipate. Whatever Guerra was now, he wasn’t the fearless guerrilla general who’d thrown German order into turmoil in Brittany, or ordered the assassination of a high-ranking Nazi official just hours before. He was a man who’d been assaulted by a personal shock — seeing Jyn suddenly after years of no contact — and suddenly faced with the prospect of losing the only person he might have truly loved apart from the cause, right in front of his eyes.

“She’s your daughter,” he said fiercely, and something in the man’s impassive gaze seemed to splinter like a coat of ice.

His scarred hands clenched and unclenched around the staff he leaned on, and he turned suddenly with purpose, starting to walk.

“Come,” he ordered, the sound of his solid staff disappearing into the stone archway. “Follow me.”

Kay didn’t seem to think the sudden shift into helpfulness was particularly trustworthy, but he frowned, supporting Jyn’s head, clearly resigned to not having a choice in the matter. Cassian slipped his aching arms beneath Jyn’s knees, passed the other under her shoulders, and lifted her carefully off the ground. She weighed less than he’d expected when she wasn’t fighting him to get free — somehow the thought scared him worse than the wound in her side.

“Just a little longer,” he said to Jyn, knowing she couldn’t hear it. “Just hold on.”

Then they followed Guerra into the stone maze.

* * *

Jyn shifted, and one arm slipped from the canvas cot she was on, her rust-colored fingertips curving against the dusty floor. Cassian had to force himself to keep going with what he was doing, not to stray anywhere close to the makeshift operating table until he’d gotten what he needed. The job at hand was searching through his and Jyn’s packs after the rebels had finally turned them over, along with the store of supplies the resistance fighters had only grudgingly made available — because Saul had given the order. Moving quickly and silently, he dumped anything that needed sterilizing into the small pot of water heating over the portable burner and carried the rest over to the side of the cot.

Guerra wasn’t in the room; he’d gone to give more orders, tame the opposition to outsiders being allowed to use their precious resources — unsupervised, no less. Cassian preferred it that way; having someone Jyn clearly hadn’t wanted close by felt like a conflict of interest, a distraction. Better that he stayed away for as long as possible.

Cassian returned Jyn’s limp arm back to her side, but that was the extent of comfort he could provide. They needed all hands on deck, and Cassian didn’t trust anyone but himself and Kay to help. Chirrut and Baze had saved their lives (that was true, and he didn’t dispute it) but this was _Jyn_.

Neither of them had been part of the plan to take Jyn from the prison transport truck. To tell her that her father was in fact alive, not dead as she’d believed. Neither of them had been with her at the training camp. Neither of them had boarded the plane that flew all three of them into France. It was an unspoken connection — for Cassian at least — and it ran less on obligation, but on responsibility.

He couldn’t abandon her now.

The smell of carbolic soap clashed with the rusty tang of blood — new _and_ old — and Kay, his hands smelling strongly of disinfectant, carefully rolled back the hem of Jyn’s shirt to see the wound.

This didn’t surprise Cassian. Kay was a stickler for manners and decency, but he also had a sense of priorities, and the ability to detach from the situation at will, in a way Cassian had never really managed to learn. It was field treatment, pure and simple. Apologies could wait for later — if Jyn even cared, which she probably didn’t. There were more scars on her abdomen than Cassian had been prepared for, cuts that healed as silvery lines, and something that looked like a burn. There were probably more hidden beneath her clothes and never talked about. He knew the feeling.

Blood from the wound had seeped into the fabric, giving the illusion that it was worse than in reality. The actual injury was no more than an inch long, located to the side of her ribs and oozing slower now.

“What a thoroughly stubborn girl. Trust her to collapse instead of telling us that she was bleeding,” Kay muttered, swiping at the site of the wound with gauze. “The fragment might have nicked one of her ribs, but it doesn’t look like it managed to puncture her lungs, that’s good news. But we’re going to have to turn her — I need to see if the fragment made it out the other side.”

Cassian took Jyn’s shoulders and waited for Kay to signal. They’d done this before, after all. On the silent count of three, he lifted, rolling her towards the wall and holding her steady while Kay probed at the skin. “Can’t feel an exit wound,” he said. “Unusual for close range detonations.”

“She grabbed a German officer and used him as a human shield,” Cassian said, and saw Kay’s mouth twitch in something like pride. “He got the worst of it.”

“Of course she did,” he said, gesturing for Cassian to lay Jyn down flat again. “Now this is the grisly part.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Cassian said, already checking his flashlight. “Just hurry.”

“Right you are.” Calm as ever, Kay dried the pair of forceps he’d picked out of the hot water and started to probe at the tear in her flesh. “You do know that there’s an 82% chance that a wound like this will lead to some kind of infection, don’t you?”

“I survived mine,” he said. “It’s not impossible.”

Kay inclined his head, still feeling for the fragment. “I suppose you have a point,” he murmured, as though speaking any louder would cause the fragment to burrow deeper. “Stubborn girl. Now I think…I’ve got it. Hold very still now.”

Cassian heard a noise, and looked over his shoulder. For a man built as tall and broad as Guerra, he had the quiet tread of a pawed cat, and he nodded at Cassian, not saying a word.

There was a gruesome squelch and Cassian looked back around. The fragment was clenched between the forceps, almost black with clotted blood and flesh, and Kay smeared it onto a piece of gauze with relish. “There. Can’t cause further trouble.”

_Thunk. Thunk_. “How is she?”

Guerra’s English bore an undercurrent of some indefinable accent, possibly a combination of all the places he’d traveled and lived, but his voice carried the suggestion that it could flare like a lion’s roar, just as quickly as it might quiet to a low hum.

“The fragment’s been extracted, sir,” Kay said, reaching for the disinfectant now. “All we can do is suture and dress the wound and hope for the best. But I’d expect a fever as the body fights the infection.”

“You speak like a doctor,” Guerra was eyeing Kay with the measuring gaze of someone curious. In some strange, reverse way, having Jyn’s blood on their hands seemed to have softened him towards them, like it was proof that they weren’t enemies.

“My parents wanted me to become one, but that’s about as far as it gets, I’m afraid,” Kay said. He sprinkled powdered sulfa into the wound and picked up the gleaming suture, all the while watched by Guerra.

“And you?” Guerra’s attention was on Cassian now, while Kay worked quietly and quickly in front of them. “What did your parents want for their son?”

The turn in conversation was borderline absurd, certainly inappropriate, but to Cassian it felt like a test. “I don’t know what they wanted,” he answered, with his sparing honesty. “They died before they could tell me.”

Kay — aware of the story in detail — glanced at Cassian, but refrained from comment. No one spoke until Kay had finished a row of neat sutures and nodded his head in a signal that they could start dressing the wound. Cassian helped sit Jyn up again while Kay wound a roll of gauze around her middle.

He had to be on the bed to do it, and Jyn’s head rested heavily on his shoulder, her face turned towards his neck. He could feel the sweat on her skin soaking through his clothes, the heat off her exposed skin and the smell of her — ash, metal, blood…a girl who could fight wars and fight _on_ , until the last breath. She was steadier now, the rhythm of inhale-exhale deepening, like she was sleeping instead of being merely non-responsive, and he felt strangely self-conscious, yet simultaneously defiant at this closeness, despite being in front of Guerra.

“Done,” Kay announced, and after a second’s hesitation, Cassian laid Jyn carefully back onto the pillow again. There was only a coarse blanket to cover her with, but he pulled it up anyway to shield the bandage from view, and they both moved back with a mutual huff of relief. It was just starting, the process of recovering from a potentially infectious wound, but for now it felt like they’d done well.

Guerra nodded, his catlike eyes lingering on Jyn for only a moment more, then he turned and seated himself on the empty cot across the small room. Unlike the rest of his men, Guerra kept his long coat draped around his powerful shoulders, as though to always be prepared for an attack, but as the folds fell back to show his arms from fingertip to elbow, Cassian saw that the skin had been obliterated by permanent burns, resembling the moving extensions of a scar rather than healthy limbs. The sight would have made him feel sick, if he wasn’t more focused on the situation at hand.

_This_ was the famed Saul Guerra.

“Who are you?” he asked, smoothing his scarred hands across the staff resting in front of his knees. “Who are you, really?”

Cassian was standing at the head of the cot where Jyn slept, and he looked sidelong at Kay, who nodded.

“My name is Captain Cassian Andor,” he said, and gestured to Kay, seated at Jyn’s bedside. “This is Major James Kay. We’re operatives for the Resistance.”

“The Resistance?” Guerra said, immediately touching on the distinction. “So are we.”

“Well, that’s not currently true, is it, Mr Guerra?” Kay said bluntly. “We know that you were recently presented with an invitation to join General De Gaulle along with the other factions of French freedom fighters, but you declined. In a manner of speaking.”

“When two men both fight against the same enemy, why does it make a difference whether one takes orders from a General all the way in England, and another to a dreamer living in the mountains?” Guerra queried.

“It shouldn’t,” Cassian said, starting to see elements of Guerra in Jyn. “Not if both men truly fight for the same cause.”

“You know as well as I that General De Gaulle does not see it quite so simply,” Guerra said. “I am a madman to them, am I not?”

Neither Cassian nor Kay answered the question, more so because it felt like Guerra hadn’t been asking, not really.

He inhaled deeply, and dropped the end of his staff solidly against the stone floor. “But it can wait. Now is not the time to talk of complex matters such as this — you’re both tired, and I wish to sit with Jyn for a while. If you are both in need of transport, I’m sure passage can be arranged to wherever you need to go.”

Cassian tensed, and so did Kay. “Why would we be going anywhere?” Kay asked, clearly suspicious that it was Guerra’s way of saying they weren’t welcome in the resistance stronghold.

Guerra only smiled slightly. “You are Resistance operatives, are you not? I’m sure that I have delayed your mission. You need not be delayed any further — simply inform my captain of where you wish to be taken, and we’ll do our best to ensure you make your schedule.”

Cassian reached out and put his hand on Kay’s shoulder. Guerra didn’t know that he was the mission, only that Jyn had demanded a meeting with him — equally a possibility because she’d thought her teammates were about to be killed.

He didn’t see a reason why Guerra needed to find out from anyone except Jyn herself, especially since his stance didn’t seem to have changed. Cassian could wrestle with Guerra’s riddles and circular questions to the best of his ability, but Jyn had been right — Guerra needed something more, something _higher_ , in order to justify a change as monumental as merging with the greater Resistance factions.

Which meant they needed time.

“With all due respect, Mr Guerra, Jyn Erso is our responsibility,” Cassian said. “We recruited her, we were responsible for training her, and we won’t be going anywhere until she wakes up.”

“We may require the use of your transmission equipment to inform our superiors of the unexpected turn of events, but I am in full agreement with Captain Andor,” Kay added, his hands folded. “We stay until Miss Erso recovers. At your discretion, of course.”

After a pause, Guerra nodded. “As you wish,” he said. “I myself concur with Captain Andor. We have a common enemy, and more importantly — it seems as though you have worked to save Jyn’s life. You have my thanks for that.”

“Even if I killed one of your men?” Cassian said frankly, because if he was going to stay — it would have to be addressed.

Guerra’s cat eyes flashed at the question, his fire flaring in a striking resemblance to Jyn when she was challenged. But a second later, it was gone. “I am informed that my soldier was careless. He endangered Jyn’s life. It is unfortunate, but I would choose Jyn over the alternative.”

_Yet you abandoned her,_ Cassian thought, a sentiment he made sure was kept carefully hidden from Guerra’s searching eyes. Hidden, not forgotten. He’d seen the way Jyn fought back when she thought Guerra was trying to help her. The wounds ran deep between them.

_There’s a part of her that is broken beyond repair, and it’s because of you_.

Guerra moved towards the doorway. It was roughly shaped, and the only thing functioning as a partition was a worn but thick curtain that he pulled aside now. “Your two friends are waiting for you at the north camp — just outside,” he said. “I’ll see to it that you all have beds there, and access to our transmission equipment.”

It was unmistakably a dismissal, and Kay moved to answer it. “She’ll need a saline drip, and someone to monitor her condition,” he said, and Guerra nodded.

“I’ll make sure of it.”

Kay gathered up the packs in one hand and walked to the door, only noticing when he reached it that Cassian was slower to respond. He rolled his sleeves back down and took his bloodstained jacket from the back of the cot, resisting the urge to brush Jyn’s forehead as passed.

Guerra had known her longer and better than Cassian ever could, but there was a part of him that didn’t want to entrust her care over to an unpredictable stranger like him.

“Thank you,” Guerra said, taking the seat Kay vacated and pulling a basin of clear water towards him, along with a rag. “That will be all, Captain Andor.”

In the end, it was Kay tugging on Cassian’s arm that made him leave, and the curtain fell on Guerra tending to Jyn in stoic silence.

* * *

A piece of firewood broke off from the larger log and scattered with a fall of amber sparks, glowing like molten lava at the heart of the circle of stones. Cassian watched Baze reach a stick into the fire to stoke the embers without much interest. The focus of his attention was sitting on the dusty floor of the cave along with him, a whirring transmitter-receiver radio currently tuned to pick up one of the F-section’s designated frequencies. He kept one hand resting on the metal surface while it continued to hum, holding the headset to his ear with the other.

Snatches of music played through the static, but not the one he was waiting for. Every few minutes, he glanced at the curtain just down one of the cavern paths, as though it might move aside and Jyn would step out, paler but smiling, announcing that she was starving — and more importantly — all right.

It had been two days since she’d passed out. Around twelve hours since she’d started drifting in and out of a fever. Slightly less than that since Kay had stubbed out his sixth cigarette of the day and announced that Cassian would leave Jyn alone to sleep, under the threat of deeply unpleasant consequences if he didn’t listen.

So now she was just resting, and they were waiting for her to wake up.

Not solely because they needed her for the mission, to convince Saul Guerra and compensate for the spectacularly bad turn events in Nantes had taken, the assassination they hadn’t planned for but still hadn’t been able to stop. Cassian didn’t need superhuman foresight to know that the German reprisal had been swift, and vicious.

He told himself that first and foremost, he needed to know was whether they were likely to fail completely in their mission.

But he also needed to know that Jyn was going to be all right.

Kay caught his eye, and Cassian shook his head. He didn’t look surprised, even if they had the good luck of using the transmission equipment belonging to Guerra’s faction, receiving the messages — especially with the kind of signal they were likely to get here — would take some time. They’d sent their transmission yesterday, today was receiving the response, if any.

So far, it didn’t seem forthcoming.

“You haven’t eaten, Captain Andor,” said Chirrut.

Cassian glanced up. Chirrut was sitting on a rock beside him, his head tilted inquisitively as though he’d meant it as a question. The staff he held was slim and elongated compared to the one Guerra used, the latter being heftier and warped naturally like the branch they’d made it from. Chirrut’s was graceful, polished smooth like an old-fashioned bow, even though the surface was scored with nicks and dents where it had been used for a fight.

Chirrut tapped the ground in front of Cassian’s feet, as though to call his attention back to the one-sided conversation, and he stirred. “I have, a bit,” he said. “I’m not hungry.”

In fact, the bowl of half-finished stew was sitting exactly where he’d set it down and promptly forgotten about the matter, and Cassian couldn’t really find the appetite to finish it.

Apart from listening to the transmissions, he was absorbing all he could about state of Saul Guerra’s resistance. Few agents he knew had ever made it past the door to find one of their hideouts, much less the main stronghold, and met the leader in question face to face. It was…impressive, in its own way, though he doubted General Draven would agree. He’d call them disorganized, content to live on the fringes of existence and call themselves noble vagabonds along the lines of Robin Hood and his band of thieves. Cassian saw things a little differently.

Their choice of location was bold, but advantageous. The mountains were best known only to a few, and even fewer locals would be brave enough to wander. They had the higher vantage point, and escape routes were abundant, if they were to be discovered. The tunnels were also vast enough to allow them to abandon one sector completely and rebuild in another, almost like the severed heads of a hydra. In terms of comfort, the mountains were cold, and the living standards were by nature meant to be crude, though the faction had succeeded in making comforts to mitigate the harshness of stone and earth. They made individual caves into pockets that resembled barrack assignments, putting teams together in their respective clusters. Everyone slept in bedrolls and in flapped tents — cots were only for the infirmary or maybe Guerra’s residence.

Sleep wasn’t problematic, supplies were. Routes would have to be constant and stockpiles carefully managed, and they’d need separate camps for vehicles to be on constant watch — those couldn’t be stored within the caves, but would have to be in the forest itself.

Still, every location had its weaknesses, and Guerra had founded himself a stronghold in spite of it.

“Jyn was breathing easier the last time I saw her,” Chirrut said, referring to sight with a complete lack of irony. “I’ve been praying for her recovery. I think she’ll wake soon.”

Cassian made a non-committal noise in response. He’d gotten well acquainted with Chirrut’s strange — sometimes nonsensical — relationship with his religion, even though what he assumed was some branch of Christian faith seemed to constantly be expressed in the vaguest terms by the man himself, as though he was content to refer only to a so-called _Higher Power_ with exactly that amount of specificity.

“I told HQ yesterday that we met you and Baze,” Cassian said. “We’ll see what they say about whether you’ll have to stay with us.”

“See, Chirrut?” Baze rumbled, from across the fire pit. “He can’t wait to get rid of us. You’ve irritated him with your rambling.”

Chirrut seemed unbothered, even amused by his friend’s skepticism. “Baze doesn’t believe prayers will work to aid Jyn’s recovery.”

“Because it can’t, and _won’t_ ,” Baze interjected.

“He knows it’s possible,” Chirrut said, calmly, “because once, he believed too.”

Cassian shut his eyes, mentally preparing himself for another round of articulate bickering courtesy of Baze and Chirrut, an exchange that always ended up straying between the dredging up of personal (and obscure) incidents in their shared history, and quasi-theological-philosophical discussion.

The argument lasted shorter than he’d steeled himself for, because Cassian heard something, and immediately threw up his hand. Kay shushed the other two, and let Cassian have the silence he needed to write out the code phrases as he heard them. Ink was getting on his fingers from how fast he was doing it, but Cassian didn’t care, and neither did they.

No one spoke when he dropped the headset and started to translate the scribbled code. As he wrote, checking his work as he did, Cassian felt his heart sink.

_Oberstleutnant S confirmed kill. Twenty hostages dead in C prison camp. More taken from Nantes. Estimate fifty._

There was more, but Cassian stopped — he made himself stop — and let the feeling of guilt spread inside him, filing the nooks and crannies of his consciousness with the dark, still water that came from knowing he’d caused irreparable damage.

_There won’t_ be _people left to save if all you’re ordered to do is strike deals and talk in backrooms_ , Jyn had said. She’d been angry, lashing out at the restrictiveness of their orders that meant they could only look down and keep moving while non-mission objectives met their fate.

His fist clenched on top of the machine, and he was tempted to bring it down with a crash, but after a deep, slow breath, he pressed on — he had to. The next part he nearly skimmed through, writing out a minimal, almost clinical recounting of the German response to the assassination of Lieutenant Colonel Schmidt, all while he resolved to compartmentalize the guilt for later. He wouldn’t push it aside and forget. He’d make sure it got its day, just when he wasn’t surrounded by people, and they weren’t waiting for news.

_Threats of reprisals made. Ten French for one German, innocent or guilty no relevance._

_G must NOT take responsibility for assassination. Mission now imperative. Unite, or we lose France. Two Nantes operatives will remain with R team, provide any assistance necessary. Please confirm receipt._

Cassian had reached the last part, and he paused, because it had been marked as a personal message by the use of his agent designator. He spaced out the fresh message, decoding it at the bottom of the page so it would be easy to tear off once he was finished reading.

_Fulcrum —_  
_Orders regarding Outsider still stand. Injury may be convenient opportunity to establish further trust. Unification must succeed, whatever the cost. Awaiting your personal report._  
_— D_

Cassian read through the message once more, like it was possible to change the words, then tore the page across from right to left with sudden venom, as though a reminder of his orders was a kind of corruption, something that tainted the whole just by being. But Cassian balled his part of the message up in his hand and thrust the remaining sheet of paper towards Kay. He got to his feet while his friend read through the news, hands on his hips. He didn’t want to stay here, not where he was. He wanted quiet. He wanted to be alone.

Baze raised his eyebrows, and Chirrut just waited. Kay was still reading, and Cassian held off long enough for him to finish, nod, before he broke the news. “It looks like you’ll be staying with us for a little while more,” he said. “Welcome to Rogue team.”

Baze’s first response was to tear off a piece of stale bread. “That’s a terrible name,” he said, munching on the food.

“Good to know,” Cassian answered, just as flatly.

“Where are you off to?” Kay asked, watching him stride towards the mouth of the cave.

“A walk,” Cassian said shortly.

He dropped the crumpled sliver of paper into the heart of the roaring fire as he went, and watched just long enough to make sure it burned.

“Cassian —”

“Don’t worry, Major,” Chirrut said, in a voice as tranquil as still water. “He won’t go far.”

* * *

Cassian had, in fact, taken a walk. He’d gone about as far as the exit tunnel outside the north camp, the ones that descended into the central passageway. The geography of the Guerra faction’s hideout had every appearance of a labyrinth, but Cassian was sure that there was an internal logic to the system — or else everyone would be as lost as he surely would be, if he ventured beyond the north camp.

Maybe Jyn would know her way around. She’d been their Golden Thread so far, where deciphering the labyrinth of Guerra’s mind was concerned.

Lingering in the tunnels with no apparent purpose had its risks as well. Whichever entranceway he passed was usually flanked by one or two resistance, maybe more, and they watched him with hard, unwelcoming eyes. He didn’t doubt that word had spread about what he’d done in Nantes, and the retaliation should have been brutal and swift, but judging by how he’d gone without attack since his arrival, Guerra’s order must have been the differential factor — for himself, Kay, Chirrut and Baze.

Cassian thought it best to keep moving. He was approaching the entrance to the team’s camp again, but he didn’t feel like going back, not now.

So he paused at the curtain screening Jyn’s recovery room from view. He shifted the curtain aside with one arm, noting with silent relief that Guerra wasn’t sitting with her today.

Cassian glanced at the camp again, just to make sure Kay wasn’t watching. Baze wouldn’t care, Chirrut probably already knew, leaving Kay’s _unpleasant consequences_ (a lecture, probably) as the only factor requiring him to be careful. But no one was facing the entrance, so he took his chance and ducked through.

The air was a little different inside the small stone alcove that functioned as an infirmary. It lacked the smokiness of the camps, but was colder for the absence of a fire. It was darker too, with only the unsteady light of oil lamps — even then, used sparingly — to illuminate the windowless space.

There was only one burning on a shelf, casting a broad orange glow across the stone. Cassian checked the saline drip hanging up by the bed before he sat down in the empty chair by the cot, settling in despite the formality of telling himself that he was only going to stay for a while this time.

Jyn looked smaller when she slept, as though the reason for the disparity was linked to her presence, her animation, the _fire_ that had burned bright from the second he’d laid eyes on her. She also looked as young as she was, just eighteen, lying in bed with the wounds — and faded scars — of a full-grown soldier.

Cassian grimaced, and took his hand from Jyn’s forehead after feeling her temperature. She was still running a little hot, but it was no worse than before. More time, more sleep — besides changing the dressing on her wound, the fight was hers. They’d done all they could.

The scrap of paper he’d tossed into the fire was the furthest thing from his mind, even though it made his throat tight, having to wrestle with the integrity of what he was doing. His orders treated a measure of trust as a utilitarian thing, and Cassian didn’t need to be told of the irony in Jyn questioning his apparent dedication to following them.

Only she didn’t know about _this_ particular command, and Cassian didn’t want her to ever find out. He saw the weight of what he held with regards to Jyn, whether she’d meant for it to happen or not. To her, trust was far from a tool serving a practical purpose, something that could be traded like cheap currency.

To her, it was a wound of its own. It kept the people around her at a distance, it caused her to turn inward while lashing out at anyone who strayed beyond the boundary line, like the easiest thing to do was be the outsider she’d always been.

Small wonder it had become her code name.

Cassian folded his arms in front of his chest and shifted his body into a more comfortable position. It would be better to lean against a wall instead of a chair back, but in some strange, nonsensical way, Cassian didn’t want the first thing Jyn saw when she woke up to be an empty room, not after everything. She clearly had an expectation that no one could be counted on except herself.

It was almost his business these days to prove her wrong, and not because he’d been given orders to make an asset trust him.

Cassian had lived his life following orders like those, and this was something else. Because gaining an asset’s trust — like so many he’d successfully managed to before — didn’t mean reciprocating with trust of his own, and it was past time he admitted that his wants where Jyn was concerned were independent of anything General Draven might order him to do.

He’d trusted her judgment about their approach in Nantes, leaving Kay behind despite the fact that having him with them might have made the fight at the tavern less dangerous. He was putting his trust in her right now — by not trying to manipulate Guerra himself with his knowledge of the single pressure point that mattered, trusting that she would be the one to ensure the mission was a success.

Trust and faith.

It was straying from his orders, though not outright disobedience. Testing the implicit limits of what he could and couldn’t do, and now he was in the gray. More importantly — it was too late for him to turn back now.

Strangely enough, the knowledge perturbed Cassian less than he thought it would.

* * *

Jyn felt like she’d dreamed, she just couldn’t remember. They lurked at the back of her mind, along with scattered images of things — people — that may or may not have been real. It was like lying at the bottom of a river, swept along by currents out of her control, only intermittently resurfacing at moments that were out of her hands.

There was the blurred sight of a scarred hand dabbing at her heated face with a cold cloth, one that she’d wanted to shrink away from, but hadn’t had the strength to. So she’d just closed her eyes and let the water swallow her again.

There was a soothing, deep voice that sounded almost like Chirrut’s, forming words that bore some resemblance to prayer.

Her mother’s soothingly cool touch on her face, and her father propping Jyn up with his arm, sitting up beside her with a book in his lap. No — not real — it was from all the times she’d been sick, occasions just by themselves because of how rarely they came about. Her parents used to drop everything to sit at her bedside, anything she wanted, stories, food, toys, back when…

No — _no_.

Jyn sank again, and it seemed like an age before she resurfaced again, this time to an unknown place. The sandy color of the ceiling above her head stirred a memory somewhere, a thread that her mind — feather-light, thin as a wisp — drifted to follow.

Marrakech. She was fifteen. She’d collapsed into bed with a fever after two days in the blistering hot sun, trying to evade the dealers in Casablanca who were after her blood.

No, that wasn’t right. Her forehead creased, as she began to probe the various sensations at her limbs, which didn’t seem to be entirely willing to do her bidding. There was something in her arm, what —

Jyn’s head turned on the pillow, seemingly by the force of gravity acting on its immovable weight, rather than out of human effort, and she took in the needle taped to the inside bend of her forearm, connected to the rubber tube that snaked up to a suspended clear bottle of fluid…

_What the —_

Jyn seized whatever reserves of strength she had left and groped with her left arm to try and pry the needle loose. She’d just been about to rip off the band securing it to her skin when something caught her eye in the general background. Something she hadn’t expected.

Cassian was seated in a chair beside the cot, looking distinctly the worse for wear with bruises not quite faded on his skin, cuts that were fresh scabs — but also asleep, his eyes closed and a jacket draped over his knees.

Jyn stared at him in a silent, extended moment of confusion. Then it was like she’d been energized by a snap of electricity, and her gaze — followed a little more sluggishly by her hand — went to the area of the blanket that covered her lower body. The material nearest to her ribs was raised slightly by something running beneath it, and twinged in protest when she applied pressure to the spot.

Bandaged.

It all came rushing back. She winced at the remembered flash of a grenade going off, and _thud_ of the rough landing, like being picked up and thrown, the dead body on top of hers until she’d shoved it off…

Cassian. Jyn’s hand went to her face, and she felt her cheeks and neck, a flush rising as she wondered if she’d imagined all of it. Had he been the one who held her after she collapsed? Why did he shout? At who?

_More questions than answers._

“You’re back,” Cassian said — suddenly enough that she’d have started if she could.

All the rustling and shifting must have woken him, and Jyn looked over again, feeling incredibly small in her current state. Because he wasn’t supposed to be there. They were on a mission to salvage the Resistance, and waiting for one agent to recover from an injury was wasting time they wouldn’t get back. Because the smart thing to do would have been to focus his efforts on the task at hand, which meant meeting Saul Guerra at any given opportunity to try and change his mind. Cassian was smart, and so was Kay. They could do it without her, yet —

Cassian was sitting at her bedside, despite being under no obligation to do it.

There was no way he could have known, but Jyn was glad she wasn’t waking up alone in an empty room, like she’d done for years.

Her voice rose in her throat, but everything about her mouth was dry, and she had to swallow a few times before speech felt like a remote possibility.

“You look terrible,” she croaked, and he gave a huff of laughter at her first choice of words.

“No surprise there,” he answered, and Jyn felt her lips clumsily try to mirror his expression, even though the muscles in her face seemed to have forgotten how. The twisted grimace didn’t last long and she had to lie back again, her surroundings spinning from the effort.

Upon seeing her struggle to speak, Cassian had immediately reached towards a shelf and retrieved a metal water canteen. He unscrewed the top now and — murmuring an apology — helped support her head as she took a shaky sip.

“What — what time is it?” she asked hoarsely.

Her voice still sounded like an invalid’s — which she hated — but it wasn’t something she could fix outside of rest and recovery.

And she had questions.

Cassian shook his head. “That doesn’t matter. What do you remember?”

Based off his response, she guessed that it had been a while. Which begged the question — what was he still doing here? But Cassian was waiting for her answer (maybe concerned about a possible head trauma), and Jyn winced. “Grenade,” she said. “Missed it. My fault.”

“No it wasn’t,” he said evenly. “Good thing we had the supplies to treat it. You’ve been ill — you’re still running a slight fever, actually.”

“Oh.” Jyn didn’t know quite what to say. She’d always treated physical illness, short of anything that hampered her ability to walk, as something to be de-prioritized until a more opportune moment.

But this didn't seem like good timing at all.

Jyn stared hard at the ceiling, trying to decide whether she’d imagined Saul caring for her during said fever, or whether he’d tried — in some perversely careless way — to make up for his shortfalls as an adoptive parent. Maybe it was guilt.

Or maybe there just hadn’t been anything to take up his time. Did fanatical resistance factions have days off?

“So,” she said, after a long, slow breath. “You’ve met Saul.”

Cassian seemed to be playing for time before he answered her implicit question, and reached for a basin of water she hadn’t noticed before, wringing out a damp rag and putting it on her forehead with surprising fastidiousness. She’d assumed that anything related to missions and official orders wouldn’t receive the same level of attention, but he even made sure to fold it to fit the width of her forehead, and smoothed down the corners with his fingers.

Then he sat back again, seemingly satisfied, and smiled a little, looking at the cot frame, rather than directly at her. “He’s an interesting man,” he said. “Charismatic. I can see why he has as many followers as he does.”

“And the mission?” Jyn asked. “Did he —”

Cassian was thinking again, choosing his words. “We confirmed where each side stands,” he said. “Same enemy, but that’s as far as it went. I didn’t think it was a good idea to push it at the time — Guerra was clearly worried about you. His mind wouldn’t have been on the negotiation.”

Jyn found a small, mirthless smile at that. “You should have pressed on,” she said flatly. “I’m sure Saul wouldn’t have minded.”

“I would have,” Cassian said, simply. “I was worried too.”

Then, a little too late, he added, “we all were.”

“What time is it?” Jyn asked again, trying to steer the conversation back towards the mission. To do her part even though she’d already slowed them down, advise him on how Saul thought, what he might be able to say —

Cassian’s understated smile was one of the warmest things Jyn could bring to mind, and as though he could tell what she was thinking, he touched his hand to her forehead again, not because of her fever this time, but maybe — and she wasn’t sure — maybe because he wanted her to stop worrying about anything except herself.

“Doesn’t matter,” he repeated gently. “Sleep. There’s all the time in the world.”

Jyn wondered if he remembered what she’d said to him — after her nightmare. It must have been a day ago, maybe even less.

_This is why I sleep alone._

In her physically weakened state (which she still hated), Jyn must have given something away in her expression, because Cassian tipped his head to one side. “Unless you want me to go?”

He was teasing her, and in a strange, giddy way, Jyn didn’t mind. She didn’t want him to know — yet — how important it was, this. How something so outwardly small, _trivial_ , could mean almost the world in terms of change.

_Her_ world, anyway.

“No,” she said, so softly that she wondered if he heard her. Then, a little louder: “Stay.”

There weren’t a lot of things Jyn remembered, exhausted by the fever and everything else, but she did remember Cassian sitting at her side when she drifted off to sleep again, feeling safer than she had in a good long while because she knew she had a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A "friend". Right.  
> So apparently Cassian's code name in canon is Fulcrum. Wish I'd found that out before I made up code names for everybody else :-/ But the meaning's pretty damn cool: "a thing that plays a central or essential role in an activity, event, or situation." --> YAAAAS CASSIAN ANDOR  
> I also have a question about the slow burn. Is it still tolerable? Or do people wish they'd just *snap* already? Genuinely asking, because I have a different tolerance level for these things.


	11. Lion In His Den

Bodhi was curious again. Growing up, he’d always asked too many questions, jabbered them to his mother, until she’d laughed and began to make up answers to his queries about the sun and stars and sky, the soil beneath his feet, the birds outside the window…

The curiosity had been muffled when he realized that looking so much as inquisitive was enough to earn him a reprimand from his superior officer, if not an outright accusation of spying. There was no room for being curious in the ranks. Security clearance kept knowledge behind eternally closed doors, and Bodhi turned his eyes to the ground beneath his feet. Even when flying, he tried not to feel the freedom. People like him would never be free — it was dangerous even to think he might be, dangerous even to dream.

But at the ESD, hours away from his barracks at the main base, he’d been less closely watched (he was too unimportant to be noticed), and felt the first tentative stirrings of the boy who used to ask questions without fearing a slap or a sharp rebuke. So he lifted his head — and looked.

More importantly, he _saw_.

There hadn’t been much to see at first. The landing bay looked like the landing bay of any German base, and Bodhi’s clearance meant that he was only ever allowed to stay at his plane while the cargo was unloaded (he hadn’t forgotten the kind-eyed scientist who’d made sure he wouldn’t have to carry the crates anymore), and to take the mandated hours of rest before it was time for him to fly out again. Sometimes that meant food, when they remembered him. Sometimes it meant just sitting in the cockpit, peering at the doors that opened and closed to the mysterious workings of the ESD.

Today, there was a bowl of food, even some bread. Both were stone cold, but Bodhi was starving, so he ate, sitting on the lowered bay doors. The bread made tearing noises when he bit into it, making him think of a starving dog their family used to feed, before —

_Before it all went away._

“Eating today, I see,” said a voice he knew.

Bodhi almost choked on his food when he recognized Officer Erso. “Sir,” he said, saluting the man, “i-is there — is there something wrong? W-with the sh-shipment?”

Erso glanced at the empty hold like he’d only just remembered there was cargo, and back at Bodhi. “Oh, no. I had just finished an inspection, and I saw you eating alone. Do you mind if I sit? It’s rather too noisy inside the base.”

Bodhi found all of this incredibly strange, but he only nodded hastily, and Erso seated himself on one of the benches inside the plane. There was a sheaf of reports with him, which he shifted onto his knees, swapping a blank sheet to rest on top. The tip of his pencil touched the paper in soft, feather-like motions, graceful and effortlessly precise.

It took Bodhi a second to realize what Erso was doing. He was _sketching_.

“I find it relaxes my mind when I’ve encountered a problem,” Erso said, as though he could sense Bodhi’s curiosity (or maybe just the absence of chewing). “I imagine you must have your own methods for relaxation, Mr Rook.”

 _Mr Rook_ , as if they were just people who’d met each other on the street, and were having a conversation in the sun while cars on the road motored past, where children could just be children, where bomb craters and shelled houses weren't part and parcel of life the same as rain and sun, where young men like him weren't in uniform by the force of law...where things were peaceful, simple. _Different_.

“I used — I used to have puzzles,” Bodhi said. “And b-books. But now…now it’s…h-harder.”

“Not many puzzles or books at an army base,” Erso agreed. “A pity. One’s sense of self is easiest to find in the smallest things, and everyone should be allowed to feel like themselves — uniform or not. Don’t you agree, Mr Rook?”

 _Yes_ , he thought, but his reflexes reminded him to flinch. Erso was an officer. He might report a lowly pilot for subversive behavior. Better to just —

“I won’t report you, Bodhi,” Erso said, making the switch to his first name as though he’d sensed his fear. “I don’t believe in making windows into others’ souls. Anyone should be free to think as they wish — believe what they will — do what they can, what they must.”

He sighed, and his pencil rested on the paper, unmoving. The sketch he’d made seemed to be a landscape, shadows smudged to make a night sky — without stars. Erso looked immeasurably sad at his own drawing, and Bodhi couldn’t resist asking:

“Don’t you believe?”

Erso looked surprised, and Bodhi instantly wished he hadn’t asked, because it brought a flash of pain — quickly whipped out of sight — behind his haunted eyes. They were a strange color, not the clear, wintry blue that everyone around him had always prized, but a mixture of several things. Blue, green, and a brown so light it almost seemed like a scattering of gold dust. “I do what I must,” Erso answered, and smiled like he was on a puppet’s strings.

“Galen, what on earth —?”

Bodhi’s hand jerked at the flash of a white uniform, nearly upsetting the contents of his bowl. But the man in the uniform didn’t seem to see him — his attention flicked past his head, clearly deeming him insignificant.

“What on earth are you doing inside a cargo plane?” the man demanded of Erso, with a level of exasperation that seemed almost familiar, like they’d known each other for a long time.

“Eccentric men like me have their eccentric habits,” Erso said, in a very different voice. Ironed smooth of its inflections, as though there was nothing more to see than what presented itself on the surface. “Is there a problem, Colonel?”

 _A_ _colonel_.

“The opposite.” The man seemed eager, almost wolf-like in his hunger, and Erso walked out of the plane to join him. They moved to the side, screened from view by the outer hull of the plane, but their voices still drifted, and Bodhi, shifting painstakingly closer — listened.

“I’ve received an order,” said the Colonel. “They’ve seen the test reports of the project, and they want a prototype sent to France. Do you understand what this _means_ , Galen?”

“I do, Krennic, but the project is meant to be part of a larger vessel. The ship isn’t yet finished with construction —”

“But the prototype will detonate, will it not? The crystals were sufficient?”

“Yes — of course. With a small radius, but it would be…effective. You must know that using the prototype will deplete our reserves of the crystal deposit, it’ll take months to return to the amount needed for a second test.”

“That doesn’t matter. I just need to know if it can obliterate a target.”

A pause. “With the proper aim, it would inflict grievous structural damage, set off dangerous aftershocks, yes. But why —?”

“They’ve finally decided to bring down the hammer,” Krennic said. “And our creation will have the honor of ensuring it is _burned_ into the minds of those who oppose us.”

* * *

Jyn could hear something rattling inside the cave. She was in the furthest corner, the deepest she could go, wedged between two crags and sitting with her back to the jagged wall, but she didn’t dare start a fire or strike a match, not even to light the small lamp she’d taken from the house.

 _The_ house.

Any ownership she might have had of the place where she’d grown up — it died with her parents. It meant nothing without them, no comfort, no safety, and she knew on instinct that the closer she stayed, the greater the danger.

The soldiers who’d killed her parents were still in the valley, looking for her with those ugly weapons, hunting her like the wolves she sometimes heard during the night, their howls echoing through the woods.

The memory made her flinch, because her father was always the one who sensed her distress, and he’d sit by her bed, enclosing her smaller hands with his, whispering reassurances until she fell asleep.

Did he still exist?

The thing was moving now, shapeless limbs skittering across the rock, scratching, dragging its weight as it drew closer. Jyn pushed her face into her knees and hugged her legs until they were numb, eyes squeezed tight shut.

_It can’t get me. It can’t get me. It can’t —_

A spark crackled when it met the damp stone, and it became a orange glow that bloomed across the dark like a streak of sunlight. Jyn lifted her head in dazed fear, feeling the damp on her cheeks and blinking like a stunned animal, only to see a familiar face.

Saul’s eyes were as sharp as a big cat’s, and he spotted her without needing a cry of recognition — if she’d been capable of making a sound. There was relief on his face, which was always stern to her memory, hardly ever smiling, but Jyn couldn’t have been gladder to see him.

A steady patch of ground in a world that had turned itself upside down.

He held out his hand to her. It was scarred along the back, disfigured with old wounds, old blisters on his palms and cuts scored into the skin. “Come, my child,” he said, in his hoarse voice. “We have a long journey ahead of us.”

* * *

The cool rag on Jyn’s forehead had the steady pressure of a stone. A droplet snaked its way down from the damp cloth and down the side of her cheek, tracing a curved path before it disappeared into her hair. Noises were starting to grow less distant, and as she gradually slipped from sleep to wakefulness, her eyebrows contracted at an out-of-place noise, wondering if she was still dreaming.

Because she could have sworn there was some kind of animal in the room. It growled like a bear, but somehow that didn’t seem quite right.

Then the noise tapered off into the faint _clack_ of something hitting the dusty floor. “You’re cheating, Chirrut,” the voice rumbled.

“If that’s true, then why do you always insist on playing?” came the placid answer.

Jyn looked over just as Baze — who somehow looked bigger than when she’d seen him last — tossed the dice in his hand. They rolled to a stop beside Chirrut’s knee, and Baze said a bad word.

“I win.” Chirrut beamed, and held out his hand for the dice. “Did we wake you?”

It was either the residual delirium from her fever or she was getting used to Chirrut’s _non sequiturs_ , but Jyn found that she couldn’t be surprised anymore. “Who plays craps in a sickroom?” she croaked.

“No chessboard,” Baze said, as though it explained everything.

“You shouldn’t be getting up,” Chirrut added.

“Too late.” Jyn gave an involuntary groan when she heaved herself into sitting position. Her head swam from lying flat for too long, and she only managed to hunch over at the edge of the creaking canvas cot, facing her knees.

“She’s trying to kill herself,” Baze said, like it was a running commentary for Chirrut. “Not a good color.”

Jyn concentrated on breathing, slow and deep, in and out — a hand braced against her bandaged side. “Well, I had a piece of shrapnel inside of me,” she panted. “What’s your excuse?”

Baze’s laughter was as low and rolling as thunder, and Chirrut got to his feet, tapping at the floor with the end of his stick as he moved closer to the cot. “You shouldn’t be sitting up yet,” he said. “Your friends were very clear that you needed rest.”

The mention of Kay and Cassian made Jyn look up, alert. Already her thoughts were outracing the last vestiges of drowsiness, jumping from the risks of being outsiders in the Guerra faction — especially Cassian, who’d killed one of theirs — to what Saul might have asked of them, or threatened them with, while she’d been bedridden.

Jyn took one look at the tubes still snaking from her arm and ripped them out before she could think twice, leaving them on the pillow like a _thank you_ note. “Where are they?” she asked.

“I only offered to take over your bedside watch,” Chirrut said reassuringly. “My Spanish is a little rusty, but I was under the impression that the Major was taking Captain Andor to task for neglecting his own rest and recovery.”

Jyn frowned, feeling a pang of something that felt a little like guilt. While she generally enjoyed annoying Kay whenever she could, Cassian had always acted as something of an umpire, and she hadn’t meant to cause disagreement between the two friends. “They should have just left me alone,” she muttered. “I was just sleeping, anyway.”

Chirrut inclined his head, as though Jyn had a point. “Very logical, but Captain Andor was adamant that he didn’t want you to wake up alone.”

Jyn smiled at the floor for a long moment. “Right,” she said, and began to look for her boots.

“She’s getting her shoes,” Baze reported to Chirrut. He had a way of talking about things as if they weren’t happening, or the people around him were deaf and didn’t mind their every action being narrated with inflectionless sarcasm. “I think she means to walk out of recovery.”

“I don’t think you should be doing that,” Chirrut said.

“Noted.” Jyn was in a vest already, and slacks — clean and different from the filthy and singed clothes she’d worn out of Nantes — and she was relieved to see that dizziness aside, she could still do her laces. Not a total invalid, then.

That optimism didn’t last particularly long, since she made it about two steps before she staggered and caught the wall behind the cot for support. Her necklace swung like a pendulum from the impact, and she gripped it tight in one hand, putting the focus on her breathing again.

“Bad idea,” said Baze, unnecessarily.

Nevertheless, she took it that he wasn’t deathly serious at taking Kay and Cassian’s word as orders, otherwise he’d have shot her somewhere to make movement an impossibility. So she swung around to lean on the wall for support, eyeing the two of them.

“Look, you can either help me, or watch me fall on my face,” she said matter-of-factly. “Which one?”

“Blind man helping an invalid,” Baze snorted. “I have a good feeling about this.”

Chirrut looked at Jyn with his cloudy gray gaze. “You’re very stubborn, aren’t you, Jyn?”

Jyn found a smile. “Best learn that about me now.”

Chirrut sighed, and turned to Baze. “Please, my friend. You’re a better arm to lean on.”

Baze grumbled, but stomped forward to let Jyn put her weight on him as she walked. His braids were beneath her forearm, wiry and thick like a sheep’s wool. “I’m not an old man’s cane, Chirrut.”

“I never said you were, Baze. I meant that you're the better one to lean on."

* * *

Jyn’s strength started to return the more she walked, and she gently disengaged from Baze’s supportive bulk, signaling that she was going to try by herself. She put both her hands on the wall until the dizziness subsided, and she had a chance to look around. At first, it all seemed…surreal. She’d never been in the Guerra faction’s hideout, much less familiarized herself with the way around, since her memories of arriving were hazy at best. There were caves branched off from the single, curving tunnel — sounds of talk, the smell of food cooking, cigarettes and the faint, ever-present scent of gunmetal…it was like she was ten years old again, orphaned, and trying to find her footing in a strange new world.

For a moment, she was at a loss and about to ask for Chirrut and Baze’s directions, until she heard the voices, out of the medley of sounds, warm as the glow from the fire reflecting off the sandy stone.

Jyn put her cheek to the wall and listened. Kay and Cassian were speaking in Spanish, and she knew enough words to recognize parts of what they were saying, even if she fell far short of fluency herself. The conversation made her smile against the stone, because it was silly, one of those fireside talks where they tossed stories and thoughts across and back to pass the time. The strangest thing so far was hearing Kay speak Spanish as fluently as his English (more animated, but somehow no less sarcastic), though it shouldn’t have been a surprise — of course Cassian would have taught him.

Then a small laugh, and she heard the voice that made her feet start to move again, almost stumbling in their eagerness to get closer.

Cassian was saying something about the winter in Mexico when Jyn reached the mouth of the cave, and she heard the conversation die as they noticed her standing there.

“Hello,” she said, a little awkwardly, wishing now she’d interrupted at a different point in the conversation, and not when it had just been the two of them. “How…how long was I asleep?”

“ _Jyn_.” Cassian — it turned out — had been sitting closest to the archway, leaning on the curved rock at his back, and he got to his feet in a hurry, shrugging off his jacket as he did.

Jyn felt her body sway backward slightly as he came up in front of her, and she braced the wall for support again, telling herself it was just the dizziness from lying down too long. Cassian noticed, and he took her forearm to help her along, nothing ostentatious or crutch-like, he was only making sure she didn’t topple over.

His face was all concern and real — tangible — relief, with a kind of intensity that was almost hard to watch, but unlike the concern from Saul that Jyn refused to accept — she could accept this. She _wanted_ to accept it.

“Where’s your coat?” he asked.

It belatedly occurred to Jyn that she’d staggered out of the recovery alcove without anything warmer than what she had on, which was why accepting his jacket seemed like a good idea.

Cassian settled it around her shoulders, and she shrugged in answer to his question about the clothes while he helped her sit at his place by the fire. “In a puddle of my blood, probably.”

“Looks like you’ll live to fight another day, Miss Erso.” Kay was standing at her side, and handed down a tin mug of steaming tea, which she hated. He probably knew it. “Drink up. It’s good for you.”

Jyn sniffed, holding the mug away from her nose. “You smell like cigarettes,” she observed, knowing what she did about his circumstance-triggered smoking habits. “That worried about me, were you?”

Cassian laughed, and she felt his shoulder brush against hers when he sat back down, as warm as a fire all by himself — or maybe she was just cold. “Kay will never admit it, but he’s a good emergency medic when the situation calls for it. You’ll have to thank him for your stitches — good or bad.”

“Can’t wait to find out,” Jyn said, shifting so that her dressing was in a more comfortable position. “Is there any food?”

“My god, she’s back.” Kay went off towards the fire and started to stoke it up, sending a whirl of sparks into the air with each motion. “Lucky for you, there’s leftovers.”

Baze grunted again. He and Chirrut had taken their places around the fire, the former collapsing onto his bedroll like he’d exhausted his energy — or effort of caring. “Because the food’s terrible.”

“You made a good recovery,” Chirrut said, from one side of the fire pit. His smile was strangely as reassuring — even better — than the hot tea, despite knowing as little as she did about the blind believer. Like someone genuinely wished her well, and it was possible to take strength from it.

Jyn almost asked Chirrut how he could tell she’d recovered after being nearby when she’d almost fallen straight over, but thought the better of it. “So?” she asked. “Will you be staying?”

“Seems so,” Cassian said. She noticed that he wasn’t moving further away, even though the cave had plenty of space for five. “They’ve been with us for the last three days.”

Jyn’s stomach turned over at the realization. “ _Three_ days? You waited for me for _three_ days?”

No one seemed as surprised as she was.

“I take it that you were expecting us to abandon you then,” Kay said, stirring the pot over the fire. “Squat in the northwest of France, too. How little you think of us.”

“ _Kay_ ,” Cassian said, gently.

“Without delivering a lecture on the merits of being careful in close quarter combat, no less,” he continued, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t dream of it. But since you are — technically — _ailing_ , we can suspend that lecture for a later date of your choosing.”

Jyn took a long, slow sip of her tea, trying not to laugh because it would hurt her injury, no doubt about it. There were peppermint leaves in the hot water, and the bitter taste — unmoderated by sugar — was sharp on her tongue, which made her decide it would serve better as a hand-warmer, and she cupped it between her fingers. “I just thought you might have been sent somewhere else by now,” she said casually.

“Why would that be?” Cassian asked, almost in a teasing murmur. “Who’d eat all our food?”

Jyn huffed a laugh, still chafing at the tin mug. She’d had plenty of time to think, her mind whirring subconsciously even as she was meant to be resting, and now it all came back to her with ease — reasons to be concerned.

“But the mission…” she said. “Does it still matter? Saul assassinated the Lieutenant Colonel. The Germans won’t let anyone forget it. We were supposed to stop things from escalating. Even if Saul unites with the factions now, it’s too late.”

Everyone, especially Kay and Cassian, went still. Maybe because they knew she was right, maybe because she’d injected an undercurrent of guilt into the statement, because she might have been able to stop it, if —

“Jyn,” Cassian said. “It’s not the end. Even if things got bad —”

“—which they have,” Baze muttered.

“—there’s still hope,” he finished, and intercepted her dubious look, clearly recalling her last reaction to the store he’d set by the factor of _hope_. “If we turn back now, the French Resistance stays divided. Now more than ever — with German reprisals — we need one strong body to stand against them.”

“Divided we fall,” Chirrut said quietly, the flames reflected in his sightless eyes. “United we stand.”

Jyn stared into the white core of the fire. It was coming back to her — it already had. How she’d reacted when she first saw Saul again, after being abandoned, being _left_.

She’d looked at him with hate.

Now she had to face him again, and convince him to do something he’d never do — compromise his vision.

But she had to try, or every city in France would look like what they’d left in Nantes, and she couldn’t have that on her conscience, not that blood on her hands, all from an old hatred and a spite that — at the heart of it — came down to being selfish. A part of her wanted to punish Saul with her silence and resentment and spite, for leaving her behind, for not loving her more than the cause, for not loving her like Galen Erso should have.

What was at stake rose beyond that. At the heart of it, Jyn had finally run out of excuses, and she knew it.

“I’ll see him,” she said, to no one in particular. “I’ll convince him — somehow.”

She lifted her head, her jaw set. They’d come all the way here for a reason — there was still time to make things right. She’d make sure of it.

* * *

Cassian wondered what Jyn was thinking. It was easy to be curious about her, even when he already knew what others were content never to learn about the people in their lives, even when they still — at the same time — knew so little about each other. No childhoods, no pasts, no stories.

Maybe it was better that way.

Running through Cassian’s mind were a list of names — soldiers, fellow spies, contacts, informants — men and women who were no longer living, no more than a memory. Some of them had nearly been friends, others had come along after he’d decided to stop trying, and too many had been left behind, either to whatever end awaited others like them, or a silent shot in a quiet backstreet to make sure that secrets stayed safe.

Cassian found himself chancing another sidelong glance at Jyn. She was barely an arm’s reach away, sitting on an unfolded bedroll with her legs curled beneath her, a mug of rapidly cooling tea resting on her knee and his jacket around her shoulders. Her eyes shifted every so often, from the depths of the fire to an odd mark on the far wall of the cave, then to the stalactites speared from the arched ceiling…

Now she seemed to be watching Baze clean his rifle, but she was clearly thinking, abstract and faraway.

Most likely about Guerra, wondering what there was to be done. Cassian hadn’t known she cared, and a part of him — the one that wasn’t the spy — didn’t want to speculate as to her sudden change of heart, her sudden desire to see the mission through. As far as he remembered, all she’d promised at the start was to get them a meeting — nothing about doing the persuasion herself. That had been Cassian’s plan, not hers.

Why did she care now?

“All right?” he asked quietly.

Quiet was all he needed; Jyn still blinked, and turned her head because she’d heard. “Fine,” she said. “Just…it’s been a long time.”

Cassian almost asked: _since?_ But seeing her bite back a laugh when Kay nearly — and deliberately — upset Baze’s gun oil with the toe of his boot so as to distance it from his sleeping spot, Chirrut’s good-natured mediation, and the vaguely threatening growls of warning in response, he didn’t have to.

Jyn used to be a part of Guerra’s faction, before its insurgent militancy as the rogue resistance group, when all they’d done was drift across continents as a band of quasi-mercenaries, trading and selling and surviving in a world that showed every sign of an order about to be overturned. It must have meant campfires, sleeping rough under the night sky, and people who’d helped her feel like a part of it all. Given the violence of her reaction towards Guerra, Cassian didn’t need to guess as to how much Jyn disliked being reminded of what she’d lost — or what had left her behind.

Which was why he’d been surprised at Jyn staggering into the camp without warning, despite having more privacy and comfort in the recovery room, and her eagerness. Here she was, still, showing no signs of distancing herself like she had during training from the other recruits. Sitting with the rest of them around a fire.

Like she wanted to belong again.

 _Welcome home_ , Cassian thought, and turned back to face the fire with a small, hidden smile.

* * *

Jyn lay on her good side, her hand resting on the bad, listening to the others. It seemed to take them ages to settle in for sleep, talking quietly to each other, the hiss of a mug being emptied onto the hot stones near the fire, the crackle of more firewood being thrown onto the flames…

Finally, everyone fell quiet, and she counted the seconds until their breaths one by one began to even out. Then she sat up, carefully and quietly, and slipped underneath the flap of her tent.

A shadow fell at her side, and she tensed, but it was only a trick of the light. Just to make sure, though she wasn’t entirely sure why, Jyn peeked through to see if Cassian was in his bed. He was, and a bubble of tension diffused itself.

She preferred it that way, them not knowing. It took the pressure off, not having to walk into an already difficult conversation with the weight of expectations on her, the threat of failure and consequences she didn’t want to see looming behind her like a stalking shade.

She’d tell them in the morning, if it worked. If it didn’t, she’d wait and try again. On and on, until there were no more words. Until Saul Guerra — the immovable force of human endurance — changed his mind.

Jyn didn’t know her way around the tunnels, but she did know there were camps nearby. She slipped into one of the smaller caves and chose her guide at random.

He was a sixteen-year-old boy who’d made the mistake of sleeping without a weapon he knew how to use. Jyn clamped a hand over his mouth before he could yell in surprise, twisting the knife out of his fist and pressing the point to his chest. “Take me to Saul,” she said simply.

* * *

There was some kind of council in Saul’s chambers, a habit Jyn remembered as unchanged from when she was a little girl, and used to sleep in the loft above the room where Saul lived and held his lengthy discussions with the tableau of ever-changing captains. She used to lie on her belly and listen to the voices beneath the cracks in the floorboards, until she either fell asleep or they finished their conference for the night.

It was how she knew he’d be awake and alert, no matter how late it was.

The boy looked at her like she was mad, walking towards the guards standing on either side of the red curtain despite her non-existent authorization, but Jyn only cocked her head at the two strangers, as though their rifles didn’t impress her.

They only saw the hardened eyes of someone Saul had personally trained, a whispered story thought lost, now resurrected without warning. Jyn was a ghost to them, and she felt like one.

Then she pulled the curtain aside and heard the silence fall.

Saul was at the head of the table, surrounded by faces as battle-hardened and grizzled as his. Some of them were only ten, fifteen years Jyn’s senior, but they wore the scars of soldiers who’d seen a lifetime of war. Some of them, she recognized (Staven, who’d taught her how to rig mines, Bellamy, whose brother had been responsible for showing her how to gut someone like a fish), while others stood in the place of phantoms who went unnamed. The righteous dead, because the coveted place of being one of Saul Guerra’s captains came at a heavy price — a guaranteed short lifespan.

Jyn’s throat tightened, wondering if she would have blinded herself to all of it, just to feel like a beloved daughter — or the loved _anything_ of anyone.

There was no way of knowing.

“Jyn,” Saul said, his face losing some of its age as he saw her, standing on her own two feet, paler but alive. “Have you come to see me?”

Jyn was almost tempted to answer sarcastically, but there was no point in wasting a retort on a response like that. “A moment of your time, Saul,” she said. “Please.”

Saul only had to nod, and his captains began to move. Some of them turned to give her searching — distrusting — looks as they left, others didn’t seem to even see her as present. Jyn waited, trying not to sway where she stood, until the last one vanished through the curtain. Then she looked at Saul.

“You should not be on your feet — a wound like yours requires rest,” he chided gently, even though she knew full well he’d sent men with worse injuries into battle, and only nodded his head at the reports of their deaths.

Jyn didn’t respond to that either, preferring not to waste her breath, and Saul sighed at her stubbornness.

“How are you?” he asked, rising from his chair to reach for two clay cups. Hot tea, a habit he’d taught Jyn to like, which made her despise it, after.

“Alive,” she said, standing by the table instead of sitting, even though her side ached in protest. “No thanks to your methods. Your men can’t seem to tell friend from foe.”

“Neither can you, it seems,” Saul answered, but not sharply. “Are we not still friends, Jyn, if not family?”

Jyn stared hard at a map hanging on the far wall. “The last time I saw you, it was Marrakech, and I was fifteen years old. You handed me your gun, a knife, told me to finish a deal with two contacts at the marketplace clear across town — then wait for you at the safe house until morning. The police got involved, your contacts tried to kill me, and after I shook them off, I was delirious in bed for two days with a fever. When I woke up, there was no note, no ship, no sign that you’d ever returned for me at all.”

All of it, she recited, as though it was reading someone else’s history, not hers. Then she looked hard at him, making sure he saw the cold steel behind her eyes. “So no, Saul. We’re not family.”

“I had no choice,” Saul said. “You were drawing suspicion. There were whispers about who you were, who your father really was, and his work for the Germans. One of my captains heard them plotting to slit your throat in the night — if not hang you in the town square as a traitor. The resistance would never have been safe for you. I had to set you free.”

Jyn’s fist crashed onto the table, all semblance of calm eradicated by Saul trying to warp the act of leaving her behind as _freedom_. “You _abandoned_ me!” she shouted.

The guards were inside the room in a second, but Saul waved them out, and Jyn didn’t say a word until the curtain fell still again. “I don’t forget it, Saul,” she said, low and angry, and _wounded_. “I trusted you more than anyone else in the world, and you left me. So don’t even try.”

“You were my _best_ fighter. Fiercest, the most skilled, the smartest. I’d done all I could for you — I knew that you would survive. Hating me, yes. But I did what I thought was best to protect you.”

“You thought abandoning me was safe? Christ —” Jyn broke off “— do you know how many times I’ve almost died? How many times I couldn’t even close my eyes to rest — because I couldn’t trust anything or anyone around me? _How was that safe?_ ”

Saul shook his head, slow and sad. “Because it would give you the fire to survive. Hatred is powerful, and I thought, at the very least, one of the last things I might give you, my dear heart, was something to ensure you fought for every last breath.”

He inhaled again, and she heard a faint, dusty rattle in his throat.

“These are dangerous times, Jyn. We all cannot sleep easily, whether we are with the people we care about and trust or not. There’s a war to be fought, and it won’t be won without us.”

“Of course there is,” she muttered, turning away again.

Saul coughed, and reached for his tea. He drank quietly, deeply, and didn’t speak until he’d finished. “You look like your mother, Jyn. You have Lyra’s color, her _fire_ — except her eyes.”

Jyn shut her eyes, briefly, willing Saul not to say it. He did anyway.

He’d never been one to shy away from the killing blow.

“Galen’s eyes,” he finished, and Jyn felt something small and sharp pierce her heart.

“Do you still carry Lyra’s necklace?” he asked. “I wish to see it — please.”

Jyn almost refused. Even more than that — she wanted to lie to spite Saul, knowing what its significance. Because the necklace wasn’t just hers, it was Lyra’s memory to him, a sort of reassurance in knowing Jyn still carried a piece of her mother wherever she went, like he’d fulfilled some kind of promise. It would hurt him if she said she’d lost it. Sold it for something petty, and cheap.

But the image of her mother’s face burned bright at the back of her eyes, and Jyn knew she never could. So she dug into her collar and yanked the crystal out to show him, her movements stiff and jerky with defiance. “What about it?” she asked.

Saul made no move to touch the pendant, but he watched the curved crystal turn slowly in its suspension, with something like satisfaction. “A strange stone, that one. I’ve heard stories. Exceedingly rare — but odd things seem to happen because of them. Incidents beyond belief, instances of unbelievable fortune — of _luck_. I’ve heard they protect their wearers, however few of them there may be.”

 _Your crystal_ , Chirrut had said to her, _it sings_.

Jyn pushed the thought from her mind and shoved the necklace out of sight again. “I keep it because of my mother, not because of some half-baked story you heard from a port-sodden dealer in the middle of nowhere.”

Saul coughed again, his laugh nearly wheezing. “Your mother used to travel the world, studying stones like these, Jyn,” he said. “Legend it may be, but hold onto it nonetheless. One day, it might serve you well.”

Jyn didn’t answer. Instead, she looked around the room. The cave he’d chosen to make his residence was no more comfortable than the others, more bare stone than carpets or curtains could ever make warm. There was a brazier for heat, and crude articles of furniture more blistered with scars and signs of wear than some of Saul’s soldiers. Everything about the place suggested it could be uprooted in a second, that it was nothing more than a General’s campaign tent slightly more shielded from the elements.

Saul lived his life as though he was perpetually at war, and Jyn found she didn’t miss it.

“Why did you spare my friends?” she asked, as if he hadn’t spoken about her parents at all. “It’s unlike you. I expected a cell — not a camp of their own.”

“I would have taken their lives as the price for one of my men,” Saul agreed, his words as dispassionate and detached as the indiscriminate killing blade. “But they saved you in front of my eyes. Their debt, I considered paid.”

Jyn made a skeptical noise under her breath. “Or you decided they might have information of use to you,” she said. “You don’t have to spare my feelings, Saul.”

Saul neither affirmed nor denied it. Maybe he knew it was pointless to try. “I am told that you interfered with the assassination,” he said. “Inadvertently. But you also did not aid us — even once you realized the objective. The Lieutenant Colonel was still alive when the auxiliary support came to finish the job.”

Jyn made a noise under her breath. “I would have done more than interfere. I’d have stopped you from assassinating the _oberstleutnant_ ,” she said, picking up a piece of fruit from a bowl and turning it over in her hand. “It was a foolish thing to do.”

Saul looked almost disappointed, the lines in his face sinking deeper into shadow. “Is this what’s become of your fire? I thought I trained you better. A life like Dieter Schmidt’s had to be taken — in order to show the Germans that France is ready to fight to the last man, and they will find no slaves here. Only warriors.”

Jyn let the fruit fall with a dull rattle. “Keep this up, and you _will_ be fighting to the last man. But not with the rest of France — just you and your deluded captains. The Resistance won’t back you, and without them, you’re just one rogue faction fighting on the fringe. Which wouldn’t be a great disadvantage, _with_ the support of the people — but the string of reprisals will turn the French against you, and everyone under the Guerra standard won’t have a hope in hell of changing the course of the war. You’d just be fighting for blood, not a cause.”

The words were meant to be harsh, harsher than she’d ever seen anyone speak to Saul, but Jyn was challenging him. Daring him to show her that he was more General than regretful guardian.

“So what do you suggest?” Saul asked, quiet by comparison, contemplative.

Jyn leaned against the wall, her arms folded. “Liaise with General De Gaulle and the rest of the French Resistance, get the other holdout factions to do the same. They’ll give you weapons and the help you need. Use your men, gather intelligence. Help the generals and admirals in London understand what it’s like here on the ground. Bide your time until there's a chance to strike, and make it count. But you can’t do this alone, Saul. You’ll die fighting for a France that no longer exists.”

“The girl I raised would have joined me in that fight,” Saul remarked.

Jyn shrugged. “I’m a fighter because of you,” she acknowledged, “but people change.”

“Perhaps,” Saul said, with a ghost of a smile. “Or maybe it’s as you’ve always been. I see that apart from Galen’s eyes — you’ve also inherited his mind. He once spoke to me nearly as you have. Practical, but willing to bide his time. A smart man.”

Again, a shard like black ice, steadily inching its way through the unhealed wound in her heart. The pain silenced Jyn, wiped her face clean of expression, and Saul got heavily to his feet. “You may not forgive me, and I don’t expect you to, but I have something to show you.”

Jyn moved closer to the table as Saul moved away, limping more heavily with his stick as he reached for something in a drawer, shuffling, rustling. Then he returned, and slid a single sheet onto the scarred wooden table.

It was a photograph.

Some kind of celebration, a grainy image taken to capture the moment in stark black and white. The men were clustered on a wide balcony, flanked on either side by German banners, and they were all watching something happening below.

Jyn shifted a candle closer to see the faces, something unnamed stirring at the back of her mind, in her chest. It was intuition, as though she was meant to know who the people were.

Her fingers trailed past them, searching, until they paused beneath one face. One, out of all the others. Unfamiliar, but at the same time…

Her head shot back up. “That’s —”

Saul nodded. “Your father,” he confirmed. “He’s alive, and we found him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case you're wondering, no, that's not Galen's message. Don't worry, we're not there yet (or worry, if you wanted me to go faster and I'm dragging it out). Bodhi still has to defect and meet up with everyone :)  
> Thanks for the responses about the slow burn question! I'm almost certainly going to hell for nitpicking how "slow" the Death Star burn really was (I still maintain the actual burn looked pretty quick to me), so there's that. SORRY.


	12. Alliance

Jyn hadn’t seen her father in more than eight years. Less than a decade. She hadn’t realized that it was enough to make someone a complete stranger, and he was. There were vestiges of him that felt like the Galen Erso who’d lived in the village house with his family, the father who’d come home with mud on his boots and the smell of the fields on his shirt when he hugged her, who’d sit at his desk until the late hours of the night, sketching on white sheets of paper and scratching away with his pencil in lines of numbers and symbols she couldn’t understand.

_One day, my little stardust_ , he’d told her. _One day, I’ll teach you all of it_.

Only later, when Saul’s men had gone to the house and found it a smoldering ruin, destroyed and wiped clear off the face of the earth, had she received a small box of what remained. A charred doll, a blackened blanket that used to sit at the foot of her parent’s bed, and little things, ornaments — objects that meant little compared to what she’d really wanted. Something of her father, like the crystal her mother had given her. Something that was _his_. But all his drawings had either been taken or destroyed, or crumbled into fine white ash before they could be transferred, and all Jyn had was a fading memory of what they were. Sheets covered with delicately built instruments that seemed more fancy than reality, lifelike sketches of the birds that nested near the house, his wife and child, drawn from memory because neither of them had the patience to sit still while he drew…

The memories came rushing into a vast, hollow cavity inside of Jyn’s chest, and she searched Galen’s face with something like desperation, clinging to the past because she could barely recognize the present. No farm clothes now. He was in a gray uniform like the others, pinned and pressed as protocol demanded, but unlike the others, there were marks, badges on it that she didn’t recognize from the _Wehrmacht_ officers she’d seen, different from Kay’s uniform.

He wasn’t just older, he was _haggard_. The lines at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth had deepened, robbed of the smiles they’d used to mean. He didn’t look like a man who’d found his purpose, a cause he believed in. He looked like a man who only saw the problem ahead of him and nothing else, just the toil and cycle of work.

_What happened to you, papa?_

Jyn’s fingertips were shaking as they traced his nearly unrecognizable face, and then stopped — suddenly — because she realized who was standing at his side. A man in a white uniform, captured in more clarity than the blurred face in her mind could hope to match. He’d put his gloved hands on the edge of the balcony, smiling at the scene below. The teeth reminded her of a wolf, like the ones that howled in the valley and in her nightmares.

But it couldn’t be.

Not that simple.

“Who is that man?” she asked, in a low voice.

“Colonel Otto Krennic.” Saul enunciated the words with relish. “Together, they work to accomplish the Fuhrer’s wildest dreams.”

“How do you know?” Jyn had an image of Cassian then, the way he’d questioned her at their first meeting. Sharp, discerning. Refusing to take words just as they were.

The thought steadied the ground beneath her feet, as though he might stand by her in support. Even if this was something she had to do on her own.

“Your father was a famous scientist,” Saul said. “He and the Colonel met in their youth, students at the same academy. We know that the Colonel is part of the Third Reich’s scientific advancement division — the bureau of _Experimental Science_ as they call it — so it stands to reason that his purpose for seeking out your father eight years ago was to recruit him for those schemes.”

Jyn glanced at him. “The war hadn’t started eight years ago.”

“It hadn’t been _declared_ eight years ago,” Saul corrected. “But war was always brewing. Krennic was behind some of it, yes. Now he has the vast resources and command to create terrible, terrible things.”

“And my father’s helping him,” Jyn said, bitterly.

“I did not want to believe it of my old friend, but it does not seem like he was given a choice.” Saul sounded tired again, older than his years, and he sank slowly into his chair, his knuckles blanching from his grip around the stick.

Jyn felt anger rise to the back of her throat, bitter, corrosive — _confused_. “There’s always a choice,” she murmured, because one was facing her now.

The relief of finding out her father had been alive — it was nearly erased, or at least diminished by the thought of what he was really doing. Aiding and abetting tyranny, doing the bidding of others, using his brilliant mind to create for Germany’s war machine.

There’d been a choice. Galen had chosen to live.

It was that simple. He could have chosen to end his life, and spite the men who’d killed his wife, his daughter too, for all he knew — and destroyed their home. A smart man like Galen would have recognized the dignity in a choice to die, on his terms, rather than become a slave to something he couldn’t have believed in.

Yet he’d chosen to stay.

_Why?_

What she was about to decide would mean that she trusted her father — that there was a reason why he’d decided to live instead of die with dignity, why he’d never looked for his daughter, why he’d soiled his hands in doing unspeakable things for a tyrannical regime.

Did she trust the man she remembered? The one who was now less than a ghost, overshadowed by whatever horrors had aged him beyond his years?

Jyn _wanted_ to believe in Galen Erso, but a part of her didn’t want to waste time in chasing a phantom. Another wanted to scream at him for leaving her alone in the world without a mother and father. Another just wanted him to rot in hell.

Trust had never been one of her strong suits, but there were four — unlikely, maybe even strange — people outside who had stayed for her, when the mission seemed all but lost, and leaving her behind would have been expedient, and easy.

Maybe it was time to try something different.

Jyn wasn’t looking at her father’s changed features anymore, but the man in the white uniform. _Otto Krennic_. She studied him, memorized his face, linked it inexorably with the death of her childhood and of everything she’d known.

_Krennic_.

The word felt different. Like it had purpose.

“My agents died getting me this photo,” Saul said. “Members of the science bureau are kept as secret as their projects, as far away from the cities as possible. Their identities are jealously guarded, and the parade was only one of the few times they have ever been seen in public. We don’t know where your father is now — just that he is alive, and working for the bureau.”

All of it rang of a summary, the setting up of the ground rules, establishing where everyone stood on their respective sides.

“So,” Saul said, finally, “what do you wish to do with this information?”

Jyn raised her head, and stared him unflinchingly in the eye. “This man killed my mother, and the man my father used to be. I’m going to find him, make him answer for what he's done — and then I'm going to kill him.”

It was more or less what she’d told General Draven at the final questioning, only this didn’t get the response she’d been expecting. Saul only watched, as though he expected more. “But how?” he asked. “Will you inform your commanders of this intelligence? Request their aid?”

He was testing her.

Jyn remembered the flicker in Draven’s expression when she’d mentioned a man in a white uniform to them. Clearly, they either knew of him and had decided to withhold the information from a new operative, or they’d only heard unsubstantiated rumors, to which she’d merely added a sliver of support.

One was more likely than the other.

“They don’t trust me yet,” she said. “And I don’t see why they’d want this information. They want to defeat Germany, not find one Colonel.”

A pause, and the two of them — general and agent, mentor and student — studied each other. Jyn hadn’t forgiven Saul, and she knew there was a chance she never would. He might have thought he was protecting her from enemies, enemies who wanted her dead because of her name, but it was a betrayal nonetheless. He’d _given up_. He hadn’t fought for her, battled the shadows and monsters to keep her safe. He’d left her, alone, with no expectations of ever seeing her again.

Saul left her just as Galen had, and the second betrayal cut worse, knowing what he did.

Yet here they were, both agreed on finding Galen. Like a deal with the devil, the devil Jyn would have followed to the ends of the earth — once.

Times had changed, and now it was his turn to follow _her_.

“But you do,” Jyn said. “You want to find Krennic. You had no way of knowing that I was coming, yet you had the photo. So you must have been searching for my father on your own.”

A flicker of amusement. “Fate seems to have intervened, yes,” he agreed. “It brought Galen’s daughter to my doorstep, just as my search yielded something of value.”

“I want to find him, but if my mission here fails, and you refuse to unite with the Resistance, I return to England,” Jyn said, thinking out loud. “I lose my chance of gaining their trust and finding out what they know, and you’ll risk more of your agents — men and women you can’t spare in your fight against the Germans — in the search for my father. That’s _if_ you continue to fight alone, and unaided.”

Saul was watching her, his expression unreadable.

“They respect you. More importantly, they fear what you can do here,” she continued. “Accept their offer, Saul. A war like this can’t be won alone. You know that as well as I do. And when the time comes —”

Jyn felt her shoulders straighten, like she was becoming the fighter that Saul had trained again, the one who frightened and killed and _battled_ without fail. The one he’d trusted and cared for.

“— we’ll end Krennic,” she finished. “For Galen, and for Lyra.”

Saul may have been an aged lion, but he’d lost none of his old fire, and she’d scattered enough sparks to set the flames roaring high. “For your family — for you, my dear heart — I will,” he answered. “Tell your General that I accept his terms. The Resistance will unite, and we'll show those Nazi pigs what a grave mistake it was to underestimate the French spirit. _Vive la France_.”

Jyn nodded, feeling the heat of Saul’s irrepressible flame, a burning harbinger of the ferocity of the war that was about to come. “ _Vive la France_.”

* * *

Cassian slept lightly, always ready to wake at the first shiver of trouble. Sleeping rough didn’t necessarily bother him, the presence of hostile strangers less than fifty feet away did more to that end. He was also concerned about Jyn, even though she probably would have told him not to bother, if she told him anything at all.

Her wound had to be paining her. Medication was scarce in the field, apart from the emergency essentials needed to dress an injury on the go. Not to make anyone more comfortable during recovery.

Cassian slept almost as soon as he’d closed his eyes, and when they opened again — without warning — he could tell by the dimmed light of the fire that it had been several hours since he’d fallen asleep. He sat up with a grunt, his muscles stiffened from sleeping on hard stone with only a blanket to approximate softness, and moved towards the pit to add more wood to the blaze.

The pieces landed with a crackle and a crisp snap, and Cassian stoked the fire to make sure it burned. He was on his knees, and while he waited for the flames to warm him, he glanced at Jyn’s tent, at the silently shifting folds that shielded the opening from the chilly drafts.

Then he heard a noise, and his hand went to his gun. Cassian straightened up, careful and slow. A knife would be better for silent kills; a gunshot would send the others running. But if it was someone disgruntled in the faction who wanted to assassinate them as traitors, a warning shot was the best defence.

Cassian was by Jyn’s tent now, and he almost woke her before remembering that she was injured, and unlikely to make allowances for that fact in the event of a fight. Instead, he waited in its shadow, for whoever it was to make the mistake of trying to hurt one of them.

Then there was a bump of something on stone, and a soft gasp, like the assassin had slumped against the side of the wall to regain their breath.

No, not an assassin.

Cassian walked out towards the cave mouth, and was momentarily taken aback. “Jyn?” he whispered.

She was sitting against the stone — no jacket, no coat, _again_ — and bracing her side. The gesture was enough to banish all his exasperation at her recklessness, and he went on his knees in front of her. “What is it?” he asked, urgently. “Did you tear your stitches?”

Jyn’s head was bowed, facing her lap. “Cassian,” she answered, in a way that made him want to hear her say it again.

But that wasn’t the point. She was clearly in pain, which begged the question as to why she’d even gotten up at all. “What happened?” he asked, already thinking about waking Kay to have him look at the injury. “Is it—”

Jyn’s hand was on his arm, stopping him short. She shook her head, fast, and then looked up, so suddenly that Cassian nearly didn’t have time to adjust, and their faces ended up — for what felt like the first time — level.

She was smiling, in the shadow, at him. _Smiling_.

“He said yes,” she whispered. “I went to see Saul. He said _yes_. He’ll join us — the Resistance — all of it.”

Cassian was momentarily at a loss for words, while something hot and ferocious roared inside his chest, something that felt suspiciously like triumph — and _pride_. At her, _for_ her, the girl carved from marble and liquid shadow, built deceptively small but could fight like a harpy and get thrown out of a window by a grenade blast and survive, with eyes that changed color like a brook under sunlight, the one who had her small — inhumanly stubborn — hand on his arm and her face incredibly close to his.

_Not the first time_ , Cassian remembered. They’d been fighting in an alleyway, before the mission had nearly gone to hell and taken Jyn along with it.

“You convinced him,” he said, after realizing that he’d been quiet for too long. “Jyn, you —”

“I did.” She was nodding, like she still couldn’t believe it. “It wasn’t all for nothing.”

“Jyn,” Cassian said, and she waited. “It was never for nothing. It won’t ever _be_ for nothing.”

She looked at him, visibly faltering in confidence, hesitating with her words the way she never did in front of other people. “I want to believe that,” she said, carefully. “And I’m trying.”

Cassian nodded slowly. “I know. And I’m sorry, for all this.”

Jyn’s brow creased. “Why?”

Cassian blew out his breath, thinking back to everything he’d seen of their relationship, however little it was compared to the whole. Jyn lashing out from unhealed wounds and refusing Guerra’s help, his unbending will — a trait they both shared in abundance. “It can’t have been easy,” he said. “Making peace with Guerra. I’m sorry if you felt like you had to force a reconciliation for the mission. I should have been the one to speak to him.”

Jyn’s earlier lightness, her impulsive smile at realizing she’d completed a mission — it was gone now, and the wounded one, the vulnerable one that looked back at him in the shadow, she shrugged. Not to deflect the hurt, but underscoring something that was common knowledge. “I think we both know that wasn’t going to happen,” she said. “It had to be me.”

Cassian wasn’t going to lie. He knew it too. “Are you all right?”

Jyn tipped her head slightly to one side, her eyes distant, gone someplace he couldn’t quite follow. “Not yet,” she said, her gaze on the low-burning campfire just a short distance away. “But I will be.”

It seemed like a promise to Cassian, an easy way to end the conversation and say goodnight. It was almost becoming a habit, how often he silenced his better instincts that told him to keep a measure of distance between himself and Jyn Erso. So instead of getting to his feet, he turned to sit beside her with his back to the wall, quiet and unobtrusive.

Jyn was looking at her hands, and when she shifted, the side of her arm pressed against Cassian’s, their bodies adjusting to take up what little space there was between them. “You said that if you tried to save every single person there was to save, you’d lose the war,” she said, and he understood what she was asking, in her indirect way.

Why he was still here, why he hadn’t reported back to Draven about a lost operative and a lost cause, why he’d stayed.

It should have been obvious, too obvious.

_For her._

And maybe Jyn knew it too.

“I never follow my own advice,” he said, and she laughed low in her throat, a sound that was sparks and starlight, all in one.

They looked at each other, two accidental glances that met and caught at the same time, and Jyn’s mouth curved in an expression that was both wry and tentative while Cassian’s thoughts wandered, to imagining how easy it might have been, in another life, just to lean in and —

“That’s very good to know, Captain Andor,” she said, breaking the spell.

Cassian shook his head at himself, for letting his imagination exceed reality. Jyn closed her eyes, and she leaned on him again, her hair tickling his cheek. Gingerly at first, like she wasn’t sure, then firmer still, a steady pressure that felt like an unspoken measure of trust.

She exhaled, long and slow.

“It is indeed, agent Erso,” Cassian said, very quietly.

The fire burned low inside the camp, throwing their surroundings into a wash of dull orange and smudged ink-black. But the shadows that enveloped them were the color of soft ash, and Cassian let the back of his head touch the stone wall, listening to everything and nothing.

Jyn’s breathing shifted almost immediately into the deep-and-easy pattern of sleep, clearly out of exhaustion from forcing her way free of the sickroom and into a meeting with Guerra. Cassian shifted his arm slightly to cushion her back, and stretched his legs out across the floor, already resigned to spending the night where he was.

It wasn’t a good idea. But it was innocent, nothing but two teammates sitting side by side. Jyn was injured, and he was concerned. This wasn’t any different from when he’d fallen asleep beside her sickbed, and she’d slept knowing that he was in the room.

Cassian remembered her final interview with the General, how he’d watched her return from a faraway and distant world of her own, to be breathtakingly present, the look in her eye like the flare of a near and present star. It felt that way when she’d smiled at him in the dark and laughed, lucent and utterly unaware of what she was, what she could do.

Jyn Erso had the capacity to change it all, and it would be _something_ to see it all happen.

Cassian smiled to himself. New ground now, rules bent — very nearly broken — and he couldn’t find it in himself to feel sorry, not in the slightest. More at peace than he’d felt in a long while, he closed his eyes and let himself drift.

* * *

Jyn didn’t remember falling asleep, but the ache in her side was what pulled her from the haze of muddled dreams, and she groaned quietly, her cheek rubbing against something warm, and not-scratchy, and _soft_.

Had the bedroll always been that comfortable?

It was moving, regular and repeating — up, down, up, down — and Jyn opened her eyes. What she’d assumed was her bedroll: the front of Cassian’s shirt, and he was asleep beneath her, like they’d either passed out that way (had they?), or she’d used him accidentally as a bed (more likely). His arm was behind her neck, like he’d put it there so she wouldn’t have to put her head on the stone.

Jyn wasn’t sure about her shared sleeping habits, lacking the requisite experience in that area, but she was more than sure that they didn’t qualify as _considerate_. So she settled for deciding that if there had been a blanket around, she might have tried to return the favor by covering him with it.

All this ran through her head within the span of seconds, instead of the reflexive response she’d been expecting from herself, which was to jump the other way and pretend the whole thing never happened. Possibly through bloodshed. Maybe — if anyone else had been awake. But it was just her and Cassian, and Jyn was curious at the rare moment of vulnerability. Was he losing his touch as the always-careful spy?

He looked younger when he slept, with less of the secrets and silent concerns that made him seem older and more cynical than he should have been. Jyn watched him, despite knowing she’d run out of excuses for staying where she was.

“Oh, you have _got_ to be joking.”

As far as noises went, Kay’s disapproving voice was as good as the _crack_ of a whip, but Jyn only saw the opportunity in an otherwise compromising position, and turned her head, squinting blearily at the Major like she couldn’t imagine why he was reacting the way he was.

“Hello,” she said, sitting up beside Cassian. “What time is it?”

Kay’s nostrils flared dangerously at the scene in front of him, but now Cassian was waking up too, blinking once or twice in confusion before he spotted Kay, who stood planted at the cave entrance with his arms imposingly folded.

“Kay,” he said, his voice hoarse from sleep. “We weren’t —”

Clearly he’d underestimated Kay’s ability to recover from a surprise, and with a vengeance at that. “You’re needed back at camp, Captain Andor,” he said, one eyebrow cocked at a dangerously sharp angle and using a voice Jyn suspected was reserved for disciplining fresh recruits. “And Cadet Erso, it appears you’ve forgotten your overcoat. I suggest that you both see to your respective tasks, and we’ll say no more of this… _unfortunate_ incident.”

Jyn’s hair was coming loose from the knot behind her head, which didn’t look good for their situation in the slightest, but she couldn’t resist pointing out the ridiculousness of Kay’s reaction. The three of them had slept in the same room in the safe house, and this was more or less the same thing, just more _…accidental_.

“Kay,” she said, trying very hard not to laugh in his face. “Nothing happened. We just fell asleep.”

Kay looked unimpressed by the assertion. “Do I need a bucket and some cold water?” he said, dangerously.

They waited, but Kay didn’t move from his spot, much less give them the benefit of salvaging the situation, and after an excessively long pause, they began to move sheepishly as instructed.

Jyn might have said something to Cassian, and vice versa, but Kay didn’t seem like the type to joke about drenching them with a bucket of icy water, so she slipped past them both and returned to the camp, ducking into her tent with a half-suppressed snort of amusement.

She still heard it, meant for when she was out of earshot, just not quite.

“I warned you,” Kay said, flatly. “I warned you to be careful.”

Cassian didn’t answer, which didn’t sound like an apology to her — not at all.

* * *

If Jyn had been expecting some kind of hurricane to tear its way through camp, it didn’t come. When she emerged from her tent at a more respectable hour, Kay wasn’t standing sentry in front of the entrance with a Bible and holy water in hand, lecture at the ready.

All she saw was Baze and Chirrut, sitting around the fire with breakfast.

Which was absolutely fine by Jyn. She’d changed her clothes, trading in for a borrowed shirt that smelled strongly of someone else’s tobacco. Combined with the sterile tang from her bandages, it was an altogether charming combination, and she wasn’t surprised that Baze — otherwise preoccupied with his breakfast — looked around with a wrinkled nose at her approach.

_“Don’t_ ,” she said in warning, and he passed her some bread with a shrug.

Jyn almost missed it, staring warily at Chirrut. The three of them were apparently the only team members awake (an unexpected mercy), and he’d evidently finished eating, and was currently sitting cross-legged with his staff balanced in his upturned palms.

“Good morning, Jyn,” he said pleasantly. “Would you like to join me? Peaceful meditation does wonders for an injury still healing.”

“Maybe later,” she said, placing herself on Baze’s other side, just in case Chirrut wasn’t one to take no for an answer.

The bread was stale but warm from the proximity to the campfire, and Jyn tore into it with her fingers. “So where is everybody?” she asked. “How much food am I supposed to save?”

Baze grunted, in a _have at it_ sort of way. “Englishman and Mexican went to borrow a transmitter from somewhere,” he said. “Didn’t tell us why. We leaving?”

Jyn assumed so, just not quite so efficiently. Then again, staying with Guerra’s faction as semi-welcome guests didn’t seem all that productive to the war effort. “We are — I think,” she said. “Saul agreed to the terms. He’s going to merge.”

“Skillfully done, Jyn,” Chirrut said, despite her not having mentioned how it happened. “Perhaps you’re best suited for something other than espionage.”

Baze snorted rudely. “The way she fights? That room full of senators and lords would be dead within an hour.”

“ _Thanks_ ,” Jyn said.

Baze bumped the side of his arm against hers. “It’s a compliment. I don't like politicians.”

“I think that gravely understates things,” Chirrut said. “I’m sure that senator from Delaware still remembers you.”

“Sounds ominous,” Jyn muttered.

Baze didn’t look particularly bothered by what sounded like an old confrontation with a somewhat-important figure in his home country. Brushing crumbs from his front, he moved towards a satchel left on a threadbare blanket and brought out a handful of mines. Clam models, by the look of them, capable of blowing through a brick wall or the hull of an armored tank. All this notwithstanding, he unscrewed the top with remarkable unconcern, a small steel pick between his teeth, and began to work on the wires.

Jyn watched for all of thirty seconds before she spoke up. “You can’t rewire a mine like _that_ ,” she said, staring at his hands with everything she’d learned buzzing in her ears. “You’ll demagnetize the charge.”

Baze snorted. “I’ve worked with explosives since you were still crawling,” he said. “D’you think I don’t know how to avoid demagnetization?”

“I tend to assume the worst — keeps things interesting,” Jyn said, finishing her breakfast and kneeling beside Baze’s satchel. “And your way takes longer. If you double-loop the fuse wire, you won’t have to shift the blaster cap and risk an unreliable time window.”

She sensed that she was currently the subject of some wariness (most likely from Kay, who viewed any skill of hers as potentially lethal), and shrugged. “I never said I didn’t know how,” she said, for the benefit of eavesdroppers.

Baze grunted, and dug out a fresh mine for her, along with a second pick. “Whoever taught you has squid for brains. Watch what I do, and _don't_ ask me to repeat myself."

“Good morning, Major, Captain,” Chirrut said pleasantly. “I assure you, it’s all very safe.”

“I find your use of the word _safe_ highly suspect, Mr Imwe,” Kay answered, standing behind them with Cassian. “Must you both fiddle with explosive charges over breakfast?”

Jyn expected a red-hot glare focused at the back of her head, and she looked up briefly from her efforts to rewire the mine, intercepting a small head shake from Cassian, more likely than not a warning to let this one pass.

She rolled her eyes.

Kay was muttering irritably about appalling table manners while Cassian helped him put the transmitter in the corner, after which he came over to the fire, presumably to pick up his share of breakfast.

Jyn glanced at him. “How much trouble are you in?” she asked, making sure Kay’s back was turned.

She’d wondered whether to expect some discomfort over the morning’s events, but Cassian didn’t seem to think anything was strange, and neither did she, because he bit back a laugh at her question, and shook his head. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“And here I thought Kay was _just_ starting to like me,” Jyn murmured.

Cassian stood up. “Don’t worry,” he said, with a small smile. “He does.”

After Cassian moved away, Jyn was aware of Baze eyeing them both with something resembling a smirk. “What?” she asked.

Baze’s eyes flicked over to Chirrut, who now wore a smile, his staff still held at a perfect balance on his palms. “Let them be, Baze,” he said serenely. “The journey matters just as much as the ending.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bahaha. Sometimes I wonder if I make Jyn look too heartless. Cassian's crushing hard and all she can think of are ways to screw with K2. Bwahahahaha.


	13. All Together Now

Galen Erso felt the heated air sweep across his front, hot as the fires beneath the earth that ran as melted stone, turning the sheets of icy rain to mist before they even got close. Three planes — hulking, imposing things — waited under guard, cargo doors lowered to receive their respective loads. Three parts to the destruction that he’d been ordered to demonstrate, that he’d created from things he’d only ever envisioned as forces for good, now warped, twisted beyond his worst nightmares.

But no, he couldn’t afford to think of that now. It wasn’t yet time. It was another reminder of the beast gnawing away at his humanity, like the eagle that attacked the chained titan Prometheus, day after day, vicious without fail.

No, not now. Plans, the work, and results. Galen Erso, the engineer, indispensable to the Nazi war effort, the architect of their triumphs, accomplice in their dismantling of human limits imposed on greed, hunger, and destruction.

The weapon would have to be mounted in a frame ensuring maximum stability during transport, and accompanied by a separate catalyst that functioned as a detonator. Three distinct things, not large, not when they were still at prototype stage, but it had thrown the research base was in upheaval. It was a flurry of dogged activity and tasks being completed with near-frantic efficiency, all to prove to a shadowy room full of colonels and generals that their work — the cost, both human and not — had all been worth it. That it _could_ be worth it.

“Sure about this, Galen?” Krennic asked, and Galen turned slightly.

Krennic was pulling on his gloves, readying to face the foul weather rather than being content to wait out the storm. He was going to be flying in one of the planes, to witness the destruction firsthand — albeit at a safe distance away.

 _It would be so easy_ , Galen thought. To miscalculate the safe zone, and make sure Otto Krennic killed himself out of his own bloodthirsty savagery. If the first energy pulse didn’t disintegrate his atoms, the aftershocks would make sure he wound up crushed beneath a crust of upturned earth and forest.

But no. As always, there was a plan, and Galen couldn’t succumb to temptation until he saw it through.

“Quite sure, Otto,” he answered, calmly. “I’m afraid I’m rather the house cat.”

“I can imagine,” Krennic scoffed. “That’s what ten years of farming will do to you. Up to your elbows in the filth — best to stay above it all and put those talents of yours to good use.”

Galen’s hands were behind his back and out of sight, and he felt the pressure of his fingernails sinking into skin, from the effort it took not to visualize the farm — not the smoking ruin they’d left of it — but the one where he’d raised a daughter alongside his wife. The happiest he’d ever been and the happiest he’d ever hoped to be.

Now, gone.

Thanks to the man standing beside him.

“Indeed,” he said, coolly. “Besides, I must supervise the other engineers. I’m afraid this test has them rather dazzled.”

Krennic snorted. “Not everyone has your cool head, Galen. You’re the only person who’d turn down a chance to see his masterpiece at work.”

Galen shrugged. “Like most of the _Wehrmacht_ , I’m rather attached to France. I’d rather not see part of it blasted beyond recognition — even if you haven’t told me where it’s about to be sent.”

Krennic ignored the hint, and continued on, oblivious. “An affinity for Paris, I’d understand,” he said scathingly. “The whole of Brittany can damn itself to hell for all I care. Whatever those imbeciles in charge think they’ve been doing, letting mad dogs like the _maquis_ and the Guerra faction run wild — they deserve what’s coming.”

Galen experienced a brief — but powerful — surge of pride at the mention of Guerra, his old friend. The persistent thorn in Germany’s side and fierce beyond all measure.

“As I’ve said, Otto, the prototype has not yet attained the power to destroy a city — not London, not Paris. At most —”

“—a town and the outskirts, yes, you’ve said.” Krennic waved him off irritably. “Don’t spoil this, Galen. It’ll be a triumph, and all your worrying won’t change that.”

“I worry about the unknown,” he said. “If you had been more specific about the test environment, I might have been able to make alterations to ensure the maximum effect. Extreme climatic factors may decrease or destabilize the weapon’s —”

“Not a problem, I’m sure,” Krennic said. “Apart from some forest and a bit of frost, the weapon won’t have much trouble detonating, I’m sure.”

Galen looked at Krennic, intent now. “Where?”

Krennic glanced at the plane, as though weighing whether he ought to say. “You’ve heard about what happened with _oberstleutnant_ Schmidt, I assume.”

“I remember that you toasted his assassination — something about not liking him at the academy.”

“A secret I’d rather you take to the grave,” Krennic said sharply. “But everyone agrees that the man was a fool, exposing himself to enemy attack like that.”

Galen inclined his head. “True enough. But what does this have to do with the weapon?”

The pilot was signaling them from the lower deck, and Krennic raised his hand in acknowledgment. “We’ve taken French hostages from Nantes and moved them to the camp near Châteaubriant. Since obliterating Nantes would be pointless — not to mention an ineffective punishment, what with them being too _dead_ to see the aftermath with their own eyes — that’s where we’ll be testing the weapon. In the camp. We’ll pull out our guards — apart from a handful to keep the peace, of course — then —”

Krennic snapped his fingers, and it took all of Galen’s effort not to grimace. “I see,” he said. “A thoughtful strategy. I’m beginning to see why the delay of the remote detonation mechanism didn’t faze you, since you were planning to sacrifice a few of our own.”

“Collateral damage, my friend,” Krennic said, looking pleased at the thought of the weapon test.

“Not to mention the rebels,” Galen suggested, even though the words burned in his throat. “I’ve heard rumors that they take shelter in the woods near the test area.”

“Two birds, one stone. The aftershocks should take care of their resistance effort — if not, we’ll have men sent in to eliminate the rest. They’ll come crawling out of the woodwork once we starve them.”

 _Saul, he’s come for us_. Lyra’s voice, speaking to their only hope — the only person they could trust to take her, to take…

“Indeed,” Galen agreed. “I’m surprised Saul ever made it this long. He was always a hothead.”

Krennic’s mouth twisted in a smile, because he knew as well as Galen that mentions of Saul Guerra used to prelude casual hints of Jyn’s suspected whereabouts, the hostage who’d escaped him too. But those mentions had long since stopped returning anything more than indifference, so he let it pass.

“I’ll do my best to send your condolences, if my men manage to catch him,” he said. “You might be able to see him face to face if you come along — for old time’s sake.”

Galen shook his head. “You’ll describe everything when you return.”

Krennic barked in laughter. “That I will. Take care, Galen.”

“And you, Otto.”

Galen waited until Krennic strode down the steps to the lower deck and left him alone before he exhaled, feeling the pain in his bones, the strain of having to pretend as if the snatches of information — small sunbursts in the dark he’d accustomed his eyes to — weren’t their own kind of torture.

But he’d built up a tolerance to them. His small resistance. His small, determined defiance.

The plane engines roared below, and the guards all sprang into a salute, their arms raised straight and proud. Galen watched the scene through sightless eyes. Saul, a phantom who’d eluded Krennic’s greedy hunt for longer than anyone thought possible. Alive. He was smart, and resourceful — hopefully Galen’s efforts would be enough to ensure it.

The prototype’s initial blast would cause aftershocks, but in the absence of the ability to tamper without risking his position, Galen had given instructions for it to be buried beneath the earth. The stabilizers had yet to be refined, part and parcel of a rushed prototype, and that would diminish its effect too. It would delay the latent destruction, give Saul enough warning to make sure he ran.

_Jyn, whatever I do, I do it to protect you. Say you understand._

_I understand, papa._

_You’re not taking him._

_You’ll never win._

It was Lyra’s voice that gave him strength in moments like these, when thinking of their daughter — wherever she was, whatever she was doing, whoever she’d become, if she was even alive — could only be managed if he was strong.

But Galen wasn’t so sure he was.

“You won’t,” he said, so soft that the words were shredded by the sounds of the planes tearing off into the darkness. “You won’t win.”

He had to hope that much was true.

* * *

Cassian eyed the creased map on the cave floor, conscious of the stares of mutual skepticism being thrown across the divide by Kay and Baze. “You’re _sure_ about this?” he said. “We need at least four hundred yards for a plane to land, or we’ll all —”

“— be stranded, caught, captured, and killed,” Baze rumbled, visibly unimpressed. “I fought in Spain, same as you. I know how to tell whether a field’s good enough for a pilot to make a clandestine landing.”

He also added a profanity in Spanish clearly meant for Cassian’s ears.

“What Baze _means_ to say,” Chirrut said, evenly, “is that we’re sure.”

Cassian looked up and unintentionally made eye contact with Jyn, who’d been — up until that point — uncharacteristically quiet. It was brief, and didn’t hold for more than a second, but he almost knew what had flashed through her mind at that moment, because he’d been thinking the same. A hybrid of bemusement and suppressed humor at Chirrut affirming something that was physically, _logically_ impossible for him to have seen, but with such quiet confidence that no one disagreed aloud.

Maybe having Baze stare them down into submission was a help.

“All right,” Cassian said. “I’ll transmit the coordinates to HQ. Conditions tonight should be clear, that means we’ll be using signal fires. It’s not our best option, but I doubt Guerra’s men can spare anything more than torches for us.”

“From the state of their food, I’m not surprised,” Baze grunted.

“ _Baze_ ,” Chirrut chided.

Cassian turned to Kay, who’d also been conspicuously silent during the meeting. “Anything to add?”

Kay raised his eyebrows. “I think half of us should hike to the pickup location and prepare the signal fires,” he said. “The other half should stay behind to establish radio confirmation.”

“I agree,” Cassian said. “K—”

“—I think Miss Erso and I should remain here to continue the transmission efforts,” Kay interrupted in one breath, before Cassian could finish. “Captain Andor, Mr Malbus and Mr Imwe should make their way to the designated location and complete all the necessary preparations.”

Cassian hesitated, in a rare moment of wondering whether his hearing had failed him. Clearly Jyn was having the same trouble. “Why?” she said. “You and Cassian are always the ones to radio HQ, and Baze and Chirrut know the terrain already, shouldn’t I go with them inst—”

“Nonsense,” Kay said briskly. “You’re injured. I won’t hear of it, and I’m sure Mr Malbus and Mr Imwe’s assistance will be nothing short of invaluable to Cassian.”

Baze threw Kay a look at that, detecting the conspicuous lack of sarcasm in the casual compliment. “Do you want something?”

Kay pretended not to hear. Jyn, who knew from training that he had no scruples with putting her through physically demanding exercises, injury or no injury, also looked suspicious.

But Cassian already sensed what Kay had in mind, beyond just ensuring that he and Jyn weren’t left in the same room together. “We won’t be gone long,” he said, folding up the map. “Make sure HQ gets the message.”

Baze rolled his eyes and helped Chirrut to his feet. Jyn had already turned her back to find the transmitter, and he heard her disgruntled sigh. Injury notwithstanding, given the choice between an assignment outdoors and one that would keep her inside, Cassian knew which one she’d pick.

Kay had seemingly prepared everything for their brief trip, handing Baze and Chirrut packs full of rope. Cassian made sure he was a little slower on purpose, pretending to search for something inside his tent with Jyn just a few feet away.

But with Kay practically standing guard at the cave mouth, he’d cut short anything more than a half-syllable, as long as it came from Cassian and was meant for Jyn.

Cassian hadn’t taken the factor of coincidence into account.

“Major?” Chirrut said, approaching Kay with an expression of polite curiosity. “I was wondering if you knew the most effective way to assemble a signal fire in this terrain. Baze and I were there the other day, and the undergrowth was terribly damp. Now, that would mean —”

Cassian stopped listening; it was enough to know that Kay was occupied.

“Hey,” he said, crouching beside Jyn and the transmitter. She barely glanced at him, inspecting the radio headset with what looked like feigned interest. “You’re all right?”

Jyn threw a challenging look in Kay’s direction. “Nothing I can’t handle. I’m out of action — _if_ I weren’t, I’d be worried about whether I’d kill him before you got back.”

“Don’t kill him,” Cassian said. “He’s my best friend.”

“Your _only_ friend,” she muttered. “Sorry.”

Cassian didn’t look offended in the slightest, like he’d grown accustomed to her barbed way of speaking. “I’ll be back soon.”

Jyn’s usual sarcastic answer didn’t come, and she nodded, putting her chin on her hand. “All right.”

Cassian swung the pack up on one shoulder and turned to go, Baze and Chirrut behind him. Jyn watched him go, with something she told herself was wistfulness at being cooped up for too long, not anything else. Based off Kay’s overreaction to something so trivial, she already knew that there couldn’t be.

* * *

Sometimes, Kay didn’t understand people. Not in terms of psychology, for all its talk of subconscious motivations and internalized drives, or in terms of anatomy, because he’d studied (out of interest) what each bone, muscle and nerve was meant to do. There was a logic to the human makeup, a reasonably satisfying explanation as to why they were the way they were, and he’d always found it easy to exclude the rest — the unsubstantiated — as mere static. Noises that had no value in numbers or logical analysis. It was why he’d had such trouble going to Sunday mass as a child, why he once entertained the thought of becoming a doctor until he decided close contact with humans on a daily basis had its rather unsavory implications, and why he’d befriended Cassian Andor.

Apart from taking a liking to the man, he was efficient, competent, and most importantly, in possession of skills that were complementary to their work in the field, and Kay firmly believed that friendship was only logical if it was complementary. He’d once said as much to Cassian, only for him to agree — instead of getting offended, as past tradition suggested.

More to the point, there was a sensibility to the way Kay viewed the world, and it was what he applied to the people around him. But what he unequivocally did not understand was the human tendency to make incredibly stupid mistakes, especially when they were expected to know better.

Finding Cassian Andor in a compromising position with Jyn Erso, in a _tunnel_ , of all places, at an indecent hour of the morning — undoubtedly qualified as a stupid mistake.

 _Just fell asleep_ — a likely excuse.

Jyn Erso was _not_ complementary.

Jyn Erso as a romantic partner for Cassian Andor was even _less_ complementary.

Cassian was a soldier, and understood the value of orders. Jyn was a troublemaker by nature, and was only at her best when she was taking unqualified risks. She’d more likely kill him than kiss him, and a snide part of Kay wondered if she’d been planning to, had he not discovered the two when he did.

Kay picked through his thought process. True enough, he _had_ been starting to like Jyn Erso, although an argument could be made that it was more akin to a stray dog making peace with fleas, and perhaps he was being rather uncharitable in his assessment of her abilities — she _had_ managed to sway Saul Guerra, after all.

Maybe he was being especially harsh because of a latent disappointment in Cassian’s lapse of judgment, and getting attached to the daughter of a scientist working for the Nazi regime _was_ a lapse. The possibilities of conflict were endless, spanning numerous mission objectives that inevitably put the survival of her father at the lowest rung of priority, and the substantial likelihood that Jyn would fight the order tooth and nail. More importantly, Kay wasn’t so sure that Cassian — the one who could shoot point-blank an informant proving to be more risk than reward — would stop her, not anymore.

It was worrying, and he didn’t like it in the least.

Kay stared hard at Jyn’s profile, sitting by the working transmitter with her legs crossed in front of her like a boy, sketching aimlessly on the piece of paper she’d scrounged up from somewhere. It wasn’t half bad, the bird thing that she’d drawn on the rough paper. He hadn’t even known she liked to draw, and he _highly_ doubted Cassian did either. Which went to his point — they knew close to nothing about each other. So why?

A thought had already occurred to him — not a pleasant one, and he didn’t like it. It was Kay wondering if it was prudent to make a report to General Draven, if the attempt to talk some sense into the both of them fell flat on its face.

He’d certainly ensured there was convenient timing, making sure Cassian took the two Americans with him. Admittedly, the combination was slightly suspect — the logical choice would be for Kay to have taken up the effort with Cassian and Mr Malbus. Mr Imwe was reliable enough (somewhat) to make sure Jyn didn’t do anything silly. On a somewhat unrelated note, being able to rewire explosives to make them _more_ explosive had apparently qualified as reason enough for the gruff bear of a man — Blasé Malbutonin or whatever _Baze Malbus_ was short for — to take a liking to the girl. The other one, the priest who wasn’t really a priest, had already taken a shine to her since the day they’d encountered each other. Kay wondered if there was a logic to it, or whether it was as elusive as the reasons behind his uncanny sense of everything.

Kay sighed again, and Jyn shifted one of the headsets off her ears. “Whatever you have to say, best say it before the others get back.”

Kay cleared his throat, delicately. Jyn was still sketching. That didn’t fool him. She had excellent hearing — he’d tested her.

“Right you are,” he said. “I believe we do have a matter to discuss.”

Jyn didn’t take her eyes off the paper. “Such as?” Like she couldn’t imagine what the subject matter might be. “I’m a little busy.”

She was toying with him now, an unerringly effective way to pique his irritation.

“Well, you certainly looked it,” Kay said snippily. “I think it would be prudent to discuss what qualifies as appropriate conduct with your fellow — _male_ — team members. Commanding officers.”

“You mean Cassian,” Jyn said, shading in a part of the bird’s wing. “Why am I getting the lecture? He fell asleep too. Is it because I’m a woman and not to be trusted? Or because you don’t like me?”

“Because Cassian’s never needed the lecture — and he still wound up in a compromising position with _you_.”

“ _Compromising position_ ,” she snorted. “Two human beings passed out from exhaustion next to each other. Nothing to sound the alarm about.”

“Well, the point is, one of them is Cassian, and he’d never do that sort of thing. Actually, now that I think about it — neither would you.” Kay folded his hands in front of him. “Something about putting you two together causes…deviation. From customary patterns of behavior, and it concerns me. I’ve noticed signs all through the mission — Cassian straying from what he usually does, from asset meetings, how he handles himself in the field…that grenade could just as easily have been thrown at him, not you.”

Jyn’s eyes flicked in his direction like a knife unsheathed, a bared threat. “Are you _blaming_ me?”

Kay considered it. “No. I don’t think it’s fair to assign blame to one, and not both. But,” he continued, pressing the point, “you need to be careful. Personal attachments can make operatives…unreliable.”

Jyn pulled the headset from her ears, leaving it around her neck. “You and Cassian are friends,” she said, and there was an undercurrent of anger now, her sense of injustice pushing her to fight back. “How’s that any different?”

“Because I know how to act independently of it,” Kay said, truthfully. “I know how to prioritize the mission over the survival of my friend, and I know he’d do the same.”

“How do you know I won’t?” she returned.

Kay gave her a look of deep disdain, because she’d missed the point. “ _You_ , Miss Erso, I have no doubts about whatsoever. It’s Cassian for whom I am concerned. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he’s already let the mission drag on for the sake of your recovery.”

Jyn’s face became unreadable now, something closed off and glassy like a mirror. “I didn’t ask him to.”

“Exactly,” Kay said, pleased that she’d alighted on the gist of his concern.

“Well, you’re wrong,” she answered, obstinate to a fault.

Kay thought back to what he knew of Cassian Andor. The terse, sparsely worded reports after clandestine meetings with contacts. Termination, the clinical and efficient option preferred over risking detection. The bloodied gun he’d found at Cassian’s feet, untouched, uncleaned because all his friend seemed able to do was stare down at the weapon he’d used to take a life, blank-eyed and distant. There were always ones that stuck in the mind, more so than the rest.

Cassian left people behind. Dead or alive, he’d done it before.

So far, Jyn Erso was the exception. The inexplicable deviation from a rule that had unfailingly kept his best friend in the world alive.

Kay crossed his arms. “I don’t think I am.”

They stared at each other, neither side backing down. “Well, I don’t either,” she said. “So I suppose you’d call this a deadlock.”

* * *

Jyn wound her way through the edges of the gathered crowd. It was almost a familiar sight, a great hall, packed with people, a bonfire in the center with Saul sitting silhouetted in its blaze, surrounded by his captains like a deity by his guardian angels. She could see Kay and the others ( _Cassian_ ) through the heads, further off and nearer to the fringe. They were observers invited as a courtesy, not honored guests, not yet. The real glory was reserved for Saul Guerra, and the people who fought for his cause — a liberated homeland, and people unshackled.

There would have been a place for her by the roaring fire, but Jyn preferred to stay out of sight. These _were_ the people Saul felt he’d had to protect her from — daughter of a German-aiding scientist. A dangerous shade, a liability his stainless reputation as a patriot couldn’t afford. Best to make it look like they were keeping their distance.

The crowd pressed closer, as though sensing Saul was about to speak, and Jyn made no move to join her team. The barbed conversation with Kay had embedded itself at the forefront of her thoughts, resistant to being shoved down and out of view. The gist of it was simple enough: Cassian’s closest friend in the world, someone he trusted without question, saw her as a danger. To the mission, to his friend, whatever the subtext was — it ran on more or less the same lines. She was a liability, just when she’d been starting to feel like she belonged. Cassian wasn’t himself because of her, and Kay seemed to think it might get him killed.

Jyn wasn’t one to shy away from harsh words, but she _was_ staying at a distance because she needed to work out why it bothered her — when there was nothing she’d done to create the situation, and nothing she could do to change it.

She was distracted, and nearly bowled straight into an obstacle she hadn’t seen. It made a strange noise, and she looked down — meeting a pair of clear green eyes, seemingly too large for the small face it belonged to.

A child. A rosy-cheeked girl who had on dusty clothes a size too big for her, mended from someone else’s mishaps, used and used again. She’d evidently been separated from her parents — or left to do as she would because they had other things on their mind. There’d always been children with the Guerra faction. Few, but she wasn’t surprised to find that the number had multiplied. They were a resistance group, nearly a commune — people met, married, had children. Even if both parents being soldiers wasn’t something Jyn liked the sound of, not if it meant a child left alone in the world because their mother and father had both died in a fight they were too young to understand, but it was inevitable.

The thought was a new height of jaded, even for her.

Jyn had never been tasked with looking after them — the children — and she’d never had the luxury of being the one that was meant to be minded. If she had been assigned to care for the children, she might have made sure that none of them ever felt like they were abandoned.

But now the girl looked at her, eyes too big for her face, and Jyn felt the hardness leave her expression, softening in response to the child she’d never been.

“What’s your name?” she asked, in French.

The girl hesitated, but something ineffable won out, and she gripped Jyn’s sleeve with a startlingly tight grip. “ _Petra,_ ” she whispered. Her French didn’t sound native, colored by an accent from somewhere further north — another nation that had fallen to the German onslaught, sending her parents into hiding and armed resistance.

“That’s a beautiful name,” she said. “I’m Jyn.”

The talking began to cease in the hall, and Petra — sensing it — craned her neck, her lips parting in a habitual plea for assistance. Jyn bent a little closer. “Do you want to see?” she asked.

The girl nodded, and Jyn gathered her up and held her little body at the level of her shoulder. It was awkward at first, all limbs and a clinging, tenacious grip, and the only point of reference Jyn really had was what she used to do with her dolls — if not bombs she’d had to handle with extreme care because the slightest jolt might set them off.

Jyn wasn’t tall herself, and the most she could see was Saul’s head and shoulders. He’d straightened from his chair in front of the fire, the folds of his coat draped around his shoulders like a cloak, the staff in his hand held as straight as a spear at salute.

“My friends,” he said, and a true hush fell.

Petra’s breathing was warm and quick in Jyn’s ear, and without thinking, she tightened her embrace, because of the memories that rushed at her from the murk. Countless times, countless speeches. She used to listen with rapture.

Now she didn’t know.

“These are dark times,” Saul said, as his bright gaze swept the faces gathered in front of him. “A light threatens to be extinguished by an enemy that threatens our survival, our very way of _life_. They have trampled good, innocent people in their quest for power, robbed families of their unity, and they rule with iron — not with virtue, or the will of the masses. They have stormed through freedoms, torn down nations none of us ever believed could fall, and there is only one reason they have done so. Not because they are strong, or because they are right, but because we stand _divided_.”

Jyn heard a shiver of something ripple through the crowd, murmurs of agreement. _You haven’t changed_ , she thought. Saul Guerra was still a man who might fight the devil himself with his bare hands and fierce words, ordering him back to the depths of hellfire if he could.

“You have all fought hard, more fearsome and more courageous than anyone could have ever hoped. No general could ask for more. No free France could desire any better. In the face of an enemy that rules with terror, that hopes to crush all resistance with despair, you all have persevered, and shown _them_ what it means to _fear._ Just a few days ago, a handful of our brave men and women destroyed a key leader in the Nazi efforts to subjugate France to their iron will. Lieutenant Colonel Dieter Schmidt will be on the lips of every Nazi, now fearful for his life. _That_ is our resistance,” Saul said, and raised his staff. There was a stamp of assent in response, a short chant of _vive la France_ , traveling those present like a gleaming, connective thread.

Saul nodded, bringing his staff down again at his side with a stamp. “Today, hope burns bright. Today, we do not stand alone. Our brothers across the water, across the borders, they come to us with a request. They come to us because the fierce light of _our_ hope has inspired them to rise, and today, we face a choice. We have struck fear into the hearts of a foe that pretends not to know fear, we have made sure that France is a beacon of what it means to rebel in the face of tyranny — all across Europe, free or enslaved.”

Jyn glanced sidelong at her team to see how they were taking the altered narrative: the Resistance, begging on their knees for the soldiers of Guerra’s faction to aid them. She guessed that wasn’t _quite_ the message Draven had intended by sending them with the offer, even if he hadn’t included a script. Kay had a raised eyebrow, Chirrut was listening intently, Baze strangely appreciative (a surprise, since she’d expected him to be bored). Then again, if he hated politicians as much as he’d said, Saul was about the furthest thing from the neat-and-pressed mold that dominated the halls of Westminster and Washington.

She found Cassian last, only because he’d chosen to stay almost out of sight, observing, learning, analyzing. He was leaning against a column, half his face lit, the other in shadow. His arms were folded as he listened, wearing the expression of an impassive intelligence officer. She wondered what he was thinking — whether he assumed that she’d told Saul the version he spoke of now. She wondered if it would matter.

But Saul wasn’t finished.

“Today, when our brothers plead for us to unite, we have a choice. Every one of you faces a decision that will sway the tide of war. What do we become? Will we continue to resist alone, divided? Will we continue the mistakes of those who came before us? Or will we join forces with our brothers and sisters, no matter where they be from, to overthrow an enemy that has oppressed us for too long — but no longer?” The last part, he spoke as a roar, and the men and women under his flag responded in kind.

Petra’s arms tightened around Jyn’s neck at the shouting, and she soothed her without thinking, patting her back, even though her heart felt like it was about to beat straight out of her chest.

“Brothers and sisters, I ask you now — will you join me and our friends under the flag of resistance?” Saul demanded, as though he couldn’t hear the tide of shouts in response. “Will we fight until our last breath — defending what is right and good and just? I ask you now, what do we become?”

The response was unanimous.

“ _Vive la France!_ ”

“ _Vive la France!_ ”

“ _Vive la France!_ ”

Jyn’s ears were ringing, her veins buzzing like she wanted to fight, to feel bone crunch beneath her fists, blood in her teeth and the rust-iron taste of a battle. Owed to Saul, who’d raised her to answer his call to arms.

Saul inhaled, his chest rising with the breath, as though the sound and sight of his faction was enough to give him tangible strength. He touched his staff to the stone with a deliberate thud, the deep echo of a battle drum. “Make no mistake, brothers and sisters,” he said, in a voice husky with emotion. “This _is_ a rebellion.”

Turning again, roving from face to face, with those acute, all-seeing eyes. “Then let us rebel,” he said, and brought his staff down with a crash. “ _Vive la France!_ ”

“ _Vive la France! Vive la France! Vive la France!_ ”

Jyn shut her eyes, and opened them again, like she’d expected it all to melt away and be a dream. It wasn’t. All around her, faces elated, bright and triumphant, at Saul’s message of a righteous cause, a reason to hope, a chance in hell. Even she was halfway to believing it.

But for now, it was official. Saul Guerra was going to band together with the Resistance.

It was a small part she’d played, but Jyn felt as light as air, foolish with hope.

For a second, she believed anything might be possible.

* * *

“I thought celebrations like these were reserved for _after_ wars had been won,” Kay observed with characteristic acidity. “You’d think all these people had just overthrown Genghis Khan, for all this… _carousing_.”

“Leave them be, Major,” said Chirrut. His head had been turned — again, without an explanation — towards where Baze was currently gambling with some of Guerra’s men. “Occasions for happiness are few and far between in wartime. We would all do well to treasure them.”

Cassian swirled the contents of his cup. “And I don’t recall you complaining at New Year’s Eve,” he muttered.

Kay glanced at him sharply, and Cassian’s response was a shrug. It was a celebration around them, and by all accounts, there _was_ something worth celebrating, but the tension from the day had yet to dissipate, and Kay clearly wasn’t finished with his lecturing. Or his worrying.

Cassian had accepted just one drink so far, and it’d been to stop Baze from throwing it at someone who might have questioned his ability to aim with a rifle. The wine was cheap, and tasted more of the metal it had been poured into, but it was an occasion, whatever Kay seemed to think.

Saul Guerra had been persuaded to unite with the French resistance, and their mission was a success.

They were in a cavern so large it might as well have been a hall, and the faction had chased away the darkness with burning torches and a bonfire in the center of the cave. There was food and drink and continuous shouts of _vive la France_ from voices already hoarse from yelling the same thing.

The decision had been painted as Guerra’s, rather than an offer brought to them by foreign agents, including one of their own. It was painted as an alliance under the French flag, their faction burning bright enough to call others to fight beneath their standard, a call to arms by brothers and sisters, national or foreign-born.

Cassian had expected as much. Guerra was a man of pride, and as long as he fought — with De Gaulle or at his command — the objective had still been met. What he hadn’t expected was the speech, that Guerra _could_ give a speech like the one he’d just witnessed. Not just fire and steel, calls for hard-eyed determination, perseverance in the face of loss and sacrifice — but hope.

 _Hope_ , as though — in spite of all he must have seen — Saul Guerra could believe it too.

The others didn’t stop him when Cassian slipped away. He wandered around the cave in a slow circle, storing faces and names under the guise of enjoying his drink. Few agents had been in contact with the faction, much less had the chance to observe them like he did now. Initially he’d assumed they were all French, or nearly completely so, but as he walked, he picked up Polish, Romanian, even Spanish. Soldiers on the run from their new hostile governments, fought on the losing side — just like he had in the civil war. It wasn’t uncommon. He’d heard rumors of Colonel Romero operating underground in France, a legend in Spain and beyond, and if he’d been more careless, more prone to uncalculated risks, he might have joined the man himself.

“ _Compañero_ ,” said a voice. “ _Únase a nosotros_.”

Cassian turned. It was an invitation to join, originating from a small cluster of fighters, standing around one of the smaller fires with curious — but not unfriendly — eyes. “ _España? México?_ ” he asked.

“ _España_ ,” answered the man who’d spoken. “Francisco. Your name?”

“Cassian,” he said.

Francisco nodded, and introduced the others. Cassian committed the names and faces to memory, quietly stored away along with countless more, in the event they might become useful. “Where did you fight?” he asked.

“Fifth Army Corps,” he said, turning his arm to show a jagged scar. “But we come from all over. Can’t be helped.”

“ _Batalla del Ebro_?” Cassian queried, nodding at the scar. “Everyone fought bravely.”

“Ah.” Francisco rubbed at his scar. “We’ll return when the country is free.”

“The day can’t come soon enough,” Cassian said. “How long have you been with Guerra?”

“Long enough,” said one of them, Pedro. “Never thought we’d see the day the old lion would join with De Gaulle. He called the man a coward for hiding in London while the rest of us fight on the ground.”

“How’d you convince him?” It was Miguel now, with a curious look. “We didn’t think he’d change his mind after he ordered the assassination.”

Cassian shrugged. “It wasn’t me.”

Francisco hit his friend’s shoulder, like it should have been obvious. “I told you it was the Erso girl,” he said, and Cassian saw their gazes turn towards the center bonfire.

Saul was seated on a low chair, several of his captains standing at a short distance away. But the only person who stood at his side was Jyn, feral and as elemental as the man who’d had a hand in raising her, the two of them forces to be reckoned with.

Cassian wondered why it made him feel proud.

“I heard she was given her own command at twelve.”

“I heard she killed a man at eleven.”

“I heard Guerra wants her to stay,” Pedro said, and Cassian looked at him, his gaze sharpening. But the man didn’t notice; he was eyeing Jyn with the wariness of someone who’d been warned to be afraid. “She’s to become a captain again.”

“God help the Nazis if she does,” Francisco laughed. “God help them all.”

Cassian smiled, but it faded as soon as his gaze found Jyn again. Even if he wasn’t gullible enough to take their word as fact, he still wondered at the truth of the rumor, and if it was, why she hadn’t told him. With her precarious sense of belonging, a burgeoning connection that tied her to the new role she held in the Resistance — he’d expected her to stay.

Then again, Guerra was as good as family. Cassian should have been pleased at Jyn healing the rift between herself and Guerra. The man did care for her, in his own way. He’d proved as much by agreeing to something he’d refused in no uncertain terms. She’d be getting a father back, after a lifetime of loss and isolation. It _was_ a good thing for Jyn.

Cassian ran through the reasons in his mind, but none of it changed the fact that there was a lead-heavy weight at the pit of his stomach, a sinking dread at the thought of leaving France without Jyn.

He should have been capable of leaving her behind with no hesitation.

But he wasn’t, and he doubted he ever would be.

* * *

“The blind soldier,” said Saul. “Is he mad as well?”

Jyn had been contemplating emptying her mug of terrible drink into the fire, just to watch the flames roar. But she turned around at the question about Chirrut, and Saul’s pensive curiosity. “They say you’re mad too,” she pointed out. “I’ve seen the both of you fight — he’s better.”

Saul laughed, and she sensed the collective stares of his captains on her back, wondering who she was to make their leader so amused, so changed. It was like they could feel their power slipping away. Jyn had half a mind to march up to them and declare in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t interested. But watching them scramble to curry favor had its amusing qualities.

“Has your command responded?” Saul asked.

Jyn searched the crowd for Cassian before she’d even remembered that she was meant to be avoiding him. In front of Kay, anyway. “They confirmed this afternoon. Our mission was a success. We fly in a few hours.”

“I’ve heard news of the reprisals already,” Saul said. “It is a terrible thing.”

“You’d have done it anyway,” Jyn said, without bitterness. “And they’re still ready for you to join them.”

Saul grunted in wry amusement. “In war,” he said, “a man will make a deal with the devil if it means his enemy might be vanquished.”

“So you’re the devil, then?” Jyn inquired. “I’ve always thought so.”

No forgiveness between them, and she was driven to remind him of it by some vindictive urge to snipe with her words. But again, Saul showed his teeth in a smile. “It pleases me to see you, Jyn,” he said. “Even if a part of you still despises me.”

 _I don’t hate you_ , Jyn thought. _I can’t_. But she didn’t say it aloud, only forced down a mouthful of the tannic wine. “Here I thought you were just old bones,” she said, flatly. “Turns out you still make quite the fiery speech. Churchill should be jealous.”

“The worthiest fight is the one waged against tyranny and fear,” Saul said, looking at her with the full force of his intent gaze. “I know that what you have for me is hate, but I could not be prouder that you never lost your will to fight.”

“I wasn’t part of the Resistance,” Jyn reminded him. “They recruited me. I didn’t join.”

“Maybe,” Saul said. “But the Jyn I know could never be compelled to act against her will. So you must be in the rebellion of your own choice. Now, I put it to you — the same question I asked of my brothers and sisters — in this fight, this war, what will _you_ become?”

Jyn looked at him, and he at her.

A fearless soldier.

A loyal spy.

A trusted friend.

A loved daughter.

 _Someone_.

Before Jyn could answer, Saul shifted his gaze, clearly seeing something that demanded his attention. He opened his arms in welcome, careless of the scars that had destroyed his arms from wrist to shoulder. “The brave captain,” he said, and Jyn looked up to see Cassian standing near them. “Come, have a drink with us.”

Cassian inclined his head in cautious politeness. “It would be an honor.”

Jyn rolled her eyes, and made sure that he saw it. But apart from a gleam of recognition that made her insides twist, Cassian was otherwise inscrutable. “Thank you for making us welcome here,” he said to Saul. “We would have been in trouble without your assistance back in Nantes.”

“You brought Jyn back to me,” Saul said, gesturing in her direction. “Any debt would be considered repaid.”

Cassian’s brows contracted just slightly at the mention of her name, and Jyn wondered at it. “Jyn’s first mission was a success. You should be very proud of her.”

“I always was,” Saul said, slightly hoarse. “I always will be.”

“It’s still early,” Jyn said, dismissively.

She caught the tail end of Cassian’s smile, and her mouth twitched — for all its seriousness — to return it. A little too late, she turned back to Saul and saw that his eyes had missed none of it, and he looked intrigued — nearly amused, as though facing a puzzle that was a fit challenge for his brain at last.

“In truth, you puzzle me, Captain Andor,” Saul said, setting down his drink with a dull rattle. “Your country has no stake in this war. They have not sent troops in aid, they have not condemned the Axis powers. What happens if they catch you? Break you? Why take a risk for something your country does not believe in?”

Jyn briefly considered warning Cassian that he was being tested, but she was more than sure that he already knew.

“What happens if I’m caught,” Cassian repeated, visibly thinking over his answer. “I suppose I’ll have an interesting story to tell the Gestapo.”

Saul gave a short bark of laughter. “Spoken like a true Resistance operative. You and the Major are well-suited as a team.”

 _A little too well-suited_ , Jyn thought. Cassian and Kay had kept each other alive so far — all she’d done was nearly get them killed. She drained her cup — whatever she hadn’t stealthily emptied onto the ground already — and bent to whisper to Saul.

“I think your captains dislike me hoarding you,” she said in his ear. “Now pretend I’ve offended you and send me on my way.”

Saul chuckled, and brushed the side of her face with his hand. He’d done it too quickly, too naturally for Jyn to flinch away, to overpower habit. It was what he used to do when he returned, his fond greeting where he was sternness and steel with others. She pretended she didn’t care, even though the gesture made her feel like she was ten years old again.

“Enjoy your council,” she said, and walked off, not expecting Cassian to follow. But he did, and she didn’t say a word.

They walked further from the bonfire, as though they were both more comfortable in the shade, and Jyn eventually found herself a rock to lean on. Her side was aching, and she breathed deep, slow, until the tightness of the stitched-together skin eased.

“I hate these things,” she said, with sudden savageness. “Everyone fooling themselves into thinking there’s something to celebrate.”

“Isn’t there?” As always, the objective to her subjective, the neutrality to her uncompromisingly chosen side. “The mission’s a success. Guerra didn’t just convince his captains it was a good idea — he convinced his whole faction. Because of you.”

Jyn gave him a look. “I didn’t write the speech.”

Cassian rubbed at his eyes, shaking his head slightly as though that wasn’t his point. “You’re a lot more like him than you want to believe,” he said. “It’s not a bad thing.”

“I thought your life would be much easier if I wasn’t so stubborn,” Jyn pointed out, maybe, possibly, teasing him.

“It would,” he agreed, with a slight smile. “But that’s not what I meant.”

“Do tell.”

Cassian inclined his head. “There’s a reason people are willing to follow Guerra. It’s not just leadership — it’s the difference between leadership by coercion, by _fear_ , and the kind of leadership that comes from the heart. Guerra makes them believe, so they follow.”

Jyn was silent, not entirely sure what Cassian was trying to say. Unless he was suggesting that her efforts to antagonize Kay were a form of leadership the others were about to fall in step with.

Cassian shrugged, his way of telling her that he’d been thinking aloud. “So the damage between you and Guerra,” he said, with an air of someone treading lightly. “It’s repaired?”

The question struck her as a faintly out of place one, and Jyn made a face. “Maybe,” she said. “But like you said, it was a mission.”

“So you won’t be staying with him?” Cassian asked, suddenly.

She blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“I heard a rumor that Guerra was going to make you a captain,” he said, then added, after some hesitation, “so you’d be staying. With the faction.”

Jyn looked instinctively towards Saul again, then back at Cassian, still taken aback at the question. “Saul hasn’t said anything to me,” she said, skirting the fact that she knew he wouldn’t. They’d agreed on the search for Galen, and her staying with Saul meant that they’d lose a chance to find out just how much Draven and the higher-ups knew on the matter.

Maybe even Cassian.

“Would you consider it?” Again, the same guarded tone, like he didn’t want to set off a volatile reaction by saying the wrong thing.

_He abandoned you once. What makes you think he won’t do it again?_

_He’s mad — he can’t be trusted._

_Says the spy working in occupational deceit._

Either Cassian was getting worse at hiding his thoughts, or he’d meant for her to see the arguments and counters running through his head. As though she was in danger of not being able to think of them by herself, in danger of making a decision of incredible stupidity that even he felt as if he had to intervene. It made her feel transparent, simplified, and Jyn felt her old defensiveness stir. “Why do you care?” she asked, blunt to a fault. _Difficult, confrontational._

Cassian made a noise under his breath, a combination of checked exasperation, and wry self-deprecation. “Why do you think, Jyn?” he answered, as if it was the plainest truth in the world.

He’d used her name, in the way that only he could, and whether he’d meant to or not, Jyn couldn’t look away. There was _something_ , something he was trying to tell her, and she was only missing it because she couldn’t bear to be disappointed. Not again. Not all her life.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she said, with a fierceness that surprised even her. “Not to me.”

Cassian opened his mouth to answer, and she almost wasn’t sure if she could bear to hear it.

What would have happened next, Jyn didn’t know, and never would, because she was cut off by one of the strangest sensations she’d had in her life. Her necklace, which had been sitting out of sight as it always was, nestled at the base of her throat, it…

_Throbbed._

Like it had a heartbeat.

Jyn reached up to grasp it, only half-aware of Cassian’s surprise, then his worry. She grasped his arm, curled her fingers into his sleeve like she needed his steadiness, like something was about to turn. “Something’s not right,” she said.

Two seconds later, the tremors started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strap in, people. Shit's about to explooooode.  
> Many thanks to @Gnash323 for the Spanish translation, though there's a definite chance that I still flubbed it up anyway.  
> Also, does anyone know what a Spanish speaker would say if they wanted to call someone (e.g. a female) "stardust" or something like that? Asking for a friend. Not because of anything I'm thinking of writing/I've already written. No sir :)


	14. Aftershock

It was very nearly nothing, but Jyn’s instincts had taught her to be careful — they were the only thing she could count on to keep her alive. The tremors were a shiver that traveled the stone beneath her boots, making the torches and flames gutter from the movement. It didn’t go unnoticed, but the people in the crowd looked up and around, only briefly — as if they were used to it.

“Jyn?” Cassian said.

She didn’t take her hand from his sleeve, and continued to scan the room with her other hand clasped around her necklace. Because she hadn’t imagined it. The tremors were real, so the pulse she’d felt, _from_ the crystal, it had to be real too.

_A strange stone, that one._

_Exceedingly rare — but odd things seem to happen because of them._

_I’ve heard they protect their wearers, however few of them there may be_.

What if…?

“ _Jyn._ ” Cassian moved to stand in front of her, his shoulders obstructing her view of the room. He’d ducked slightly to look her in the eye. “What’s the matter?”

“The shaking,” Jyn said, still numb, still disoriented. “Did you feel it?”

“I did, but —” Cassian trailed off, sweeping a gaze around the crowd. “It must be shelling. The Germans know Guerra’s faction operates in the mountains. There might be a skirmish out there — enemy planes straying because of faulty navigation — it’s been known to happen.”

Cassian was reliably calm, making substantiated deductions, proposing a rational solution to something that would have caused panic. A part of Jyn wanted to believe him, she _did_. She wanted to believe that they were going to leave in a few hours, in the wake of a successful mission and the promise of another one. She wanted to believe she wasn’t losing her mind, her grip, her perspective — like a little girl terrified by the realities of wartime.

But a part of her was unsettled, and the feeling of unease filtered deep down to her bones, and she couldn’t stop until she found out why. Until she saw it with her own eyes.

 _God_. She sounded mad. She probably looked it. Cassian was smart, logical — he’d never believe her, pass it off as rambling. She’d just be wasting both their time trying to get him to believe her, for reasons that ran selfish, not anything else.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and started to walk.

Something wasn’t right.

* * *

Cassian had never seen Jyn like this before. Temperamental, stubborn beyond human belief, but not… _rattled_ , as though the brief tremor they’d both felt had gone straight to her core like a mortal blow. As though she was bleeding from the inside, and the answers were the only way to make it stop.

Jyn strode away with a short apology, to do what — he didn’t know. Except that whatever she’d felt to unsettle her like this, it was enough to push her back to the Jyn Erso who could only care about survival, the Jyn who was used to being on her own, protecting herself because she couldn’t count on anything or anyone else.

That Jyn had no capacity to care whether Cassian followed her or not.

 _Why do you care?_ she’d asked him, another conversation cut short. Something else that ran unspoken between them, again.

_Why do you think?_

Cassian raced after Jyn, tracing her footsteps through the crowd. But instead of pushing for the exit, he saw that she was heading for the center of the gathering with single-minded determination.

Guerra was in conversation with his captains when they approached, and they fell silent as soon as they noticed Jyn coming, the same way he or Kay might stop talking if someone they didn’t trust got too close.

“Jyn?” Guerra motioned for his captains to pause in their council. “What’s the matter?”

“You felt it,” Jyn said, blunt and direct to a fault. “The tremor.”

“I did.” Guerra didn’t seem to know what her concern was either. “The Germans send bombers to shell the mountains from time to time. They think it frightens us.”

One of the captains snorted in derision at their common enemy. But his eyes — unfriendly — were on Jyn. “Little girl,” he said, unkindly. “Run back and hide under the bed if you can’t stand some shaking.”

It was a combination of his reflexes and Jyn’s slowed responses due to her injury that Cassian managed to catch her before she flew at the captain who’d spoken, forcing her clenched fist back to her side. “Even if it’s shelling,” he said, in lieu of a more verbal explanation from Jyn, “it still might cause landslides — cave-ins. Should we be concerned?”

More looks, and not-quite suppressed disdain. “We’ve survived worse,” one of them sneered.

Guerra didn’t seem to have paid much attention to the dismissive demeanor of his captains — his eyes were on Jyn. “Why do you worry, my child?” he asked, as though it was just them alone.

In answer, Jyn showed him her necklace, and something seemed to pass between them. “The stories you heard — were they true?”

Guerra said nothing at first, but Cassian didn’t sense distrust, or doubt. It was as though the man was choosing his words carefully, the way a commander-in-chief made aware of a crisis would attempt to avert wider panic before discovering the complete facts. “There are various lookouts from our position,” he said finally. “The closest is through the east tunnel. Find the ladder, and climb to the top. You’ll be able to see much of the forest from there. I would like to hear what you find.”

Jyn nodded and turned without another word, taking off to find the lookout. Cassian was about to follow her again when Guerra caught his forearm in a surprisingly strong grip. “Be careful with her,” he said, in a voice only Cassian would hear. “She’s not nearly as unbreakable as she seems.”

There were a range of responses — retorts — dismissals that Cassian might have used to counter Guerra’s warning, but at the center of it was Jyn, and she came first. So he nodded and hurried after her.

He cared. That was enough. The _why_ of it could wait until later.

* * *

Chirrut was blind, but it didn’t mean he lacked sight. Not entirely, not really. Whatever visual acuity he lacked, his senses made up for in other ways, such as being able to hear the subtle shifting of someone’s foot on the ground, in order to tell which way they might move, or being able to smell the sharpened quality in the air that signaled it was about to rain.

Of course, he conceded it was something awfully hard to explain. Even Baze, who’d long since accustomed himself to Chirrut’s out-loud musings, couldn’t sit through more than five minutes without inundating the conversation with increasingly sarcastic questions. But that was Baze’s way — sarcasm meant he was actually listening, rather than dozing off, as he was prone to do. Chirrut sometimes imagined that Baze would have been quite pleased as a bison, one of the many that roamed the free plains and river valleys, slow and easy on the face of it, but a force to be reckoned with if provoked.

This was the kind of vocalized thinking that would get Chirrut a shake from Baze’s hand on the back of his neck, giving him a firm jolt to make sure he wasn’t half-asleep and dreaming. It usually ended with a laugh from them both, and the end of the matter for the moment.

But to the point, Chirrut was far from unaware of his surroundings.

For instance, he could tell that the English Major had lost sight of his friend — the Mexican Captain with the quiet voice. Interesting men, the two of them. Contradictory, despite an outward adherence to their principles that suggested otherwise. The Major prized logic and efficiency, yet had chosen to befriend his fellow operative. The Captain’s conflict was rather more delicate — like a set of scales never quite fully balanced between either side. Emotion and reason. Light and dark. Want and duty. Guilt and pride.

The Captain wouldn’t know this, or (Chirrut suspected) want to hear it, but being constantly questioning of the balance was what made the difference between a good person and the best. The best people never seemed to think they were worth anything, and Chirrut believed Cassian Andor was one of them, even if he didn’t believe it himself.

There was a grunt to his left, and a slight displacing of dust and grit when Baze seated himself on a rock. He didn’t have to make the sound, but he did, as a way of reassuring Chirrut that he wasn’t alone. “You’re back,” Chirrut said, in welcome. “Not drunk beyond all reason?”

Coins rattled in Baze’s possession, evidence of a wager won. “Rebels don’t seem to be very good at telling when someone’s only pretending to drink. Amateurs.”

The Major sighed. “And what,” he said, very sarcastically, “do you plan to accomplish by getting us all killed by drunken, angry resistance fighters?”

“A good story, perhaps,” Chirrut suggested gently, and Baze snorted. “And what do you hope to accomplish by distancing two members of the team?”

The Englishman didn’t answer, which was how Chirrut knew he’d been right.

“Keeping my friend from getting his throat cut in his sleep, among other things,” he muttered darkly. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“Based on what I’ve seen, you’re the first one on the girl’s list,” Baze said laconically. “Andor looks pretty safe to me.”

“Again, I wouldn’t expect two drifters to understand,” said the Major. Defensive, but also fraught with doubt. Jyn Erso had changed things, disrupted an equilibrium, and the unpredictability had made him nervous.

“Perhaps,” Chirrut agreed. “But I think we might agree that our shared occupation tends to be a dangerous one, albeit for a cause we believe in. If one were to make their peace with dying for it, surely finding some connection with similarly-minded comrades might not be the worst thing in the world?”

He heard the Major inhale in preparation to answer, but something else in his surroundings pushed for notice, demanded his attention. The earth moved, a shudder that ran the length of the cave like a tidal push.

Baze must have felt it too. “Shelling,” he said. “Damn Nazis.”

Chirrut didn’t respond. He tilted his head, listening. There were sounds, voices everywhere, and he moved past them like they were bodies in a crowded room, _through_ , searching for the one that might explain why he was uneasy.

The strange crystal around Jyn Erso’s neck.

It was no longer singing. Now, it _screamed_.

He rose slowly to his feet, drawing stares from his companions.

“Where are you going?” Baze asked.

“To follow her,” he said. “Something’s gone wrong.”

* * *

Jyn’s sides were burning. She’d pushed too hard, too fast and too much, and now she was nearly out of breath. East tunnel, then a ladder to the top. Saul’s instructions turning over and over inside her mind on repeat, like the crackling of a record player at the end of the song. A cave with a vantage point, that was all she wanted.

A way to put her mind at ease.

A coarsely knotted rope ladder hung from a vertical tunnel, and Jyn gripped one of the horizontal supports in her fists, feeling her wound ache in warning that she might not make the climb.

But she _had_ to.

Something closed around her wrist and she whirled, tensed to fight —

“ _Jyn_ ,” Cassian sounded nearly exasperated now. “It’s me.”

She blinked at him in the flickering light, her hand dropping back at her side. “What are you doing?”

“Making sure you don’t get yourself killed,” he answered, as though it was obvious.

“I didn’t _ask_ you to.” Now of all times, Jyn heard Kay’s warnings, his disapproval, his concern — not for her. _Him_.

Cassian looked her in the eye. “You don’t have to.”

Jyn felt a throb of something that felt almost like guilt. “I’m sorry — I just — I have to make sure it’s true,” she said, stumbling for the words.

“You showed Guerra your necklace,” he said, and his outward calm forced her to focus, to settle. “Why?”

Jyn’s heart sank. If he'd doubted her sanity before, he was even surer to doubt it now. A part of her almost wanted it to happen, so that she might be done with it — _him_. “Before the first tremor, I felt — I felt my necklace — the crystal. It… _pulsed_. Like it had a heartbeat. I can’t explain it, but Saul — him and Chirrut — they both seem to think the crystal’s not what it seems. What if…what if it’s a warning?”

The last part trailed off into silence, and Jyn realized that she didn’t just sound unstable. She sounded _insane_. “I sound mad, don’t I?” she said, taking a step back.

For a moment, she thought Cassian wasn’t going to answer her, and he was just putting together the words to cushion the rejection. Only it didn’t come, and something seemed to convince him — not that she was right, not that, not yet — but that there was enough to keep going, to ask questions, and he nodded. “I believe you,” he said. “You think something’s not right. So let’s see what it is.”

Jyn wanted to move — wanted the presence of mind to _will_ herself — to touch his shoulder, his arm, to reciprocate with just a fraction of what he was showing her, as simple as it was. She was a member of his team, and he believed her. He believed in her instincts.

They knew next to nothing about each other, but here it was — a measure of fragile trust constructed in spite of the two people it encompassed. Both trained to doubt, to be suspicious.

Jyn didn’t know how to quantify that, and she suspected Cassian might not either. Or maybe he did, and he had the will to see himself in the kind of stark clarity that she could never bear.

It was why he was the better spy, the better Captain, the better person.

“Thank you,” she breathed, and Cassian’s hand was on her arm when he moved past her to the ladder.

“I’ll go first,” he said, and reached up, starting to climb.

* * *

The rope prickled beneath Cassian’s palms. The skin on his hands was hardened from gripping weapons, a matter of occupational necessity, but he still felt the scrape from each sway of its movement. The climb was easy — just not for her. He could hear Jyn’s labored breathing a few paces back, and knew that she was driving herself to keep going, even though the act of reaching and pulling had to hurt her unhealed injury.

With Jyn, the smart thing to do was choose which battles had the highest likelihood of success, and Cassian already knew he couldn’t have stopped her on this.

The last rung put his head and shoulders into a dim cave, colder, more wintry from the wind gusting at him through the open face due north. It was twilight, reddish sun blooming across the darkening blue sky and streaking the stone around them. But observations could wait. Cassian pulled himself onto the cave floor and reached down for Jyn.

“Here,” he said, feeling for her hand in the dimness. “I’ve got you.”

Her fingers twisted tight, and he felt her breath hot on his knuckles as he hauled her through the opening and into the cave with him.

For a second, it was just them catching their breath.

“All right?” he said.

Jyn’s hands slipped from his, and she nodded. “Thanks.”

The cave floor shook, and he reached automatically to brace her arm. But something was different. The tremors weren’t from impact close by. He’d been through shelling before, in London during the height of the Blitz. German engines didn’t roar — they made the sound of a grinder, like a mill that churned and churned in service of a greater goal, machines made to cause death and destruction. Shelling came with bursts of noise and periods of awful silence as the bombs streaked towards their targets, and explosions on impact, followed by silence again, the same maddening cycle to stretch on until one side conceded — only for the night.

This was different. Apart from the rustling of the forest below the mountain, it was quiet. Too quiet.

Jyn moved closer to the edge to see, on her hands and knees. Cassian searched the horizon for signs of fire — bomb craters — for anything that might explain the shaking. There seemed to be some kind of fog blanketing the trees, stained red by the dying sun and thick — almost too thick to see through.

_What the hell was that?_

Just as he was about to voice the thought as a question, the ground shook again, but louder this time, and close.

“Watch out!” Cassian pulled Jyn low, half-covering her with his front as the stone beneath them rolled. She was small, and the impact had triggered the instincts to protect herself, making her curl smaller still beneath him. Her neck was warm against his forehead, and he could smell the smoke from the bonfire on her, a powdery smell that brought to mind a child, and sweat. She was afraid — she had to be. Even in moments too fast to think, Cassian felt fear too.

A cascade of dust and rock plunged past the open wall from above, a choking burst of dry earth and fine snow from the peak. Some of it crashed into the cave and rolled, but most of it tumbled past the mountainside and barreled into the trees.

When it was over, Cassian looked up. Earthquake then, not shelling. As far as he knew, Brittany wasn’t immune to seismic events — small earthquakes and landslides. Maybe it _was_ nothing to worry about.

“Are you all right?” he asked, seeing that Jyn was still quiet.

Jyn didn’t answer, and he saw that she’d leaned forward — past the rubble, and the debris — to see something to the west. “Cassian,” she said, in a strangely brittle voice. “Châteaubriant isn’t far from here, is it?”

“West.” He was still staring at the strange fog, how it seemed to be moving, rolling, slow — but unsettlingly mobile. “Why?”

Jyn pointed. “Because it’s gone,” she said, quietly. “I don’t know how, but it’s gone.”

A town couldn’t disappear. Cassian knew that. A town couldn’t just vanish. There had to be lights, silhouettes, shapes — _something_. Yet he was staring at the horizon — same as Jyn — comparing it to the view he remembered from when they’d arrived at the faction stronghold. Châteaubriant was mountainous, it followed the curving spiral of the mountains like a vine on stonework. It could be seen above the treetops, _that_ he was sure. There were fields, villages on its outskirts, fields for farming, forest — even the prison camp, an ugly dark void in the green.

Now, there was no sign — none — that a place had ever existed. All there was left was a rolling cloud of dark dust, pushing through trees as though it was hungry for space, matter, as though it needed to _consume_.

“Earthquakes couldn’t do that,” Jyn said, turned to him in the fading light. “Whatever just happened, it wiped out a town — and it’ll collapse the mountain if we stay here. We need to leave.”

Cassian wanted to be capable of it. A reasonable explanation for why there was no town, nothing to see, nothing existing. But the mountain began to rumble again, black fissures appearing in the stone at their feet, and he pulled Jyn by the arm towards the ladder.

“We need to go,” he said. “Now.”

* * *

They both barely made it through. Whatever connection the destruction — the _eradication_ — of the town had with the earthquakes, they were getting stronger, closer together. The force of the ground rolling sent Jyn crashing into Cassian, and she had to push herself to keep moving, when her instincts as a fighter were to stay low, defensive, senses primed for attack.

This _was_ an attack.

They just didn’t know from what.

They burst into the hall again to find it in uproar. People were talking, clustered around Saul and his captains. Somewhere, a child cried, and another followed, a chorus of distress. Jyn wondered if it was the girl she’d carried during Saul’s speech, and whether the hard-faced woman she’d returned her to could soothe her sobs.

Saul was on his feet too, wariness in his every muscle. His captains had clustered around him like a defensive phalanx, as though they were expecting an attack too.

But from where? From what?

Jyn put her hand on Cassian’s arm — only briefly — and turned her focus to Saul. She had to get to him. He was the only person who could convince his people to abandon their castle, and they needed to — or it would be the end of them all.

She had a cut on her hand from a scrape with some sharpened rock, and she pushed through the crush of people, ignoring the instincts that made her want to yank free of the mob — like they were all enemy faces, all hostile.

Someone shoved her, and before she managed to shove back, Cassian was pushing her forward, helping her to reach Saul.

Finally, Jyn fought her way clear.

“Saul!” she shouted.

The captains almost stopped her, closing in shoulder to shoulder as though she might be an assassin — their distrust triggered to new paranoid heights because of the shock.

Saul broke off from the orders he’d been giving. “I’ve issued instructions for everyone to reach our shelters. This isn’t the first time we’ve had an earthquake, it’ll —”

Jyn shook her head, cutting him off. “The mountain’s coming down, Saul. I saw it with my own eyes. Whatever’s going on, it’s triggered some kind of collapse. There has to be a way to get everyone in here clear of the mountain before we’re buried.”

She’d spoken in a whisper, careful not to cause a panic, but some of the captains still heard. “That’s impossible,” one of them snapped. “That has never happened before — never.”

“And will saying that stop a falling boulder from crushing your head?” Jyn retorted.

Cassian’s hand bumped against her forearm in warning. “We both climbed to the lookout,” he said. “There’s something else you should hear. Châteaubriant — the villages, the farms — they’ve all vanished.”

It dawned on Jyn then, the fact she’d silenced before it could consume her in its onslaught, the knowledge she’d deflected to prioritize her first instincts to survive. How many people had lived in Châteaubriant? The villages? And the prison camp? The hostages who’d only been there because Saul had given a retaliatory order?

Thousands.

And now they were all gone.

The same thought seemed to be occurring to their disbelieving audience. “Vanished?”

“That’s not possible.”

“They’re _lying_.”

“You can’t trust them!” One of the captains was appealing directly to Saul now, his face bright with rage. “How do we know their word is fact? Nothing can make a city vanish, and cause a mountain to collapse, there’s —”

“—no time to argue about this now!” Jyn lost her temper, because this was no better — no better than what she hated about the Resistance’s tactics. Backrooms, pointless discussions, dueling egos and hard biases while real lives were lost.

Another tremor forced everyone to find their footing, but Jyn stared down the unforgiving captains one by one. “You are all going to die unless you leave now. Whatever the reason, whatever you _think_ is possible, that doesn’t matter. What _does_ matter is that it’s happening, and we all have a choice to make. Do you want to die on the eve of the tide turning against the Germans? The Resistance _needs_ Saul Guerra and everyone one of you!”

She realized she was speaking to silence now, and that all eyes were on her. Instead of avoiding attention like she’d always meant to, she’d drawn it, and now it was on her to make sure everyone understood what was at stake.

How could she condense emotion — the confusion, the disbelief that grated on her mind, everything she knew, as _fear_? How could she describe what she’d seen in order to make them understand why they needed to abandon everything they had?

How could she make them believe — just enough — in a complete stranger, an outsider, in order to help them all?

Cassian was behind her and out of view, and she wanted him to take over, to find the words — the better, more diplomatic ones — to convince the skeptics. He was better with people, he knew what to say, what to do — her first impulse was to shout them down. But despite feeling his presence at her shoulder, he didn’t say a word. Maybe because he sensed it wasn't his to say, in the face of the faction’s almost archaic loyalties.

 _Why do you care? Why do you follow me?_ demanded the voice at the back of her head, the one that spun poison into insecurity, invaded with doubt the things she’d always found secure, unsettled the foundations she’d chosen to set her feet on.

“I know that you have suspicions, and reasons to doubt what you hear,” she said. “I know it sounds impossible, and you want to believe that _this_ —” she gestured at the cave, the bonfires and the gathering “—is safe. But something’s coming, and if that something managed to wipe out a town with thousands of people, it’s not safe to stay here. The Resistance will help you rebuild, you’ll get whatever you need. The most important thing is that we live to fight another day. So please, listen. We all have to leave this place.”

She looked to Saul then, because the order was ultimately his to give. He studied her face, not with distrust, but with a glimmer of fierce pride. Then he turned to his captains. “We will move towards the contingency location — before the hour ends. See it done.”

Then he raised his voice to speak to the crowd, their fear rising to fray the air. “You are all warriors, my brothers and sisters. We will find a new home, and we will rebuild. We will do France no service if we perish here tonight. Take only what you can carry, and go to your assigned tunnels for evacuation. May God be with us all.”

In silence, they began to move. Jyn felt Cassian lean close to her ear. “Good work,” he murmured.

* * *

The fresh bandage around Jyn’s middle was as good as a corset, but she’d made sure to tie it tight. If she was going to be on the run, she couldn’t afford to worry about bleeding if she managed to tear her stitches, or worse. The pressure would slow the blood flow, if any. The pain — she could handle.

She’d passed fires on her way there, broken machinery and equipment smashed to keep them out of enemy hands. People were destroying what they couldn’t take with them, knowing they could rebuild or find it again. The promise of the place — the labyrinth of caves — had been an easy escape if they were cornered. Now it was delivering on that promise in full.

She made her way back to the main cavern, which now functioned as something of a transition bridge point from the maze of tunnels and separate camps. Saul was watching the evacuation a short distance away, but she hadn’t come here because of him.

She dropped the packs at her feet, bracing them with her hands as the ground shook again (this time she could feel grit rain down on the back of her neck), and saw Cassian return with the rest, shaking his head.

“I can’t find Kay and the Americans,” he said. “They were here when we left for the lookout. Where —”

“What’s the matter?” Saul made his way determinedly towards them. He didn’t have much on him, only a small bag Jyn suspected contained papers — maybe even the picture of her father.

Saul was surrounded by his captains as ever, like knights sworn to see to the safety of their king. They were antsy, suspicious, not wanting to remain any longer in a place that showed signs of crumbling at any second.

The faction was almost ready to go, and so were they. Just missing three of the five meant to be leaving on the plane back to England.

“You should be leaving to meet your pilot,” Saul said to her. “We will move through the tunnels, to our secondary location. There’s no need to wait for us.”

“We’re waiting for our people,” Cassian said. “One Englishman, two Americans. We won’t go without them.”

Jyn thought she saw surprise in Saul’s eyes, that Cassian — for all his emotional detachment — would refuse to abandon his missing agents.

Another tremor made them all brace, and Jyn’s arm knocked against Cassian’s side, but he shook his head at her murmured apology. The stream of people moved without much pause, determined and unafraid. They weren’t city folk leaving their lives behind. They were soldiers who knew what they’d signed on for. Saul’s words had steeled them for what was coming, and they seemed ready to meet it.

Jyn searched the faces for the girl she’d carried in her arms — Petra — but hoped that she was long, long gone.

“ _There_ they are,” Cassian muttered, and trailed off into a burst of Spanish as he walked forward to meet them. Maybe he was asking Kay why he’d done something so out of character and left where he couldn’t be found.

Jyn followed, jogging a little to keep pace with him. “What were you doing?”

Chirrut walked with Baze, an arm on his friend’s shoulder, his staff tapping briskly in time to their rapid strides. Kay was, as usual, unsmiling, passing through the crowd with brusque purpose. It took her a second to see — as focused as she was on their faces — that they had something with them.

 _Someone_.

Baze had him by the scruff of the collar, like a sack, and threw him onto the ground at their feet, so that the body rolled and came to a stop with its arm flung out, the bloodied hand spread wide.

The German uniform was the first thing Jyn saw. Next, the youth. A young pilot, his chin covered with sandy stubble, and he’d been killed with a shot through the forehead. This, she noted with ambivalence. Clean and unemotional.

“We found him lurking near one of the entrances with a flamethrower,” Kay said. “Mr Malbus took him out with a straight shot.”

Cassian glanced up at that, sharp and alert. “They send soldiers like him to eliminate survivors,” he said. “Flood the hideout and pick out the stragglers.”

Jyn’s mind was already working, neck in neck with Cassian’s logic. “A trap,” she said. “So this was their doing? The Germans?”

“Seems the most likely possibility, yes,” Kay nodded. “Mr Imwe told us we were following you. Apparently he fudged the definition, because we found ourselves in the woods and taking out an enemy scout instead.”

A sharp look in Chirrut’s direction. “We were following her _lead_ ,” he said, evenly. “Maybe not quite in the literal sense.”

Kay inhaled deeply through his nose, visibly suppressing his irritation. “There’s no chance that our Jerry here was acting alone. My estimate — the optimistic one — is that he’s at least one in a squadron of twenty. Lord knows how many squadrons make up the total.”

“They wouldn’t necessarily see the evacuation,” one of the captains said. “Our tunnels are scattered, hidden.”

Cassian shook his head. “But they’re built for small teams to slip out unseen,” he said. “With the amount of people evacuating, you’d be spotted — then it becomes a hunt.”

Saul’s grip tightened around the staff. “A grievous trap.”

“Should we stop them now?” a captain jerked his head at the lines of people moving. “We’d be leading them to a slaughter.”

“We could fight,” one of them suggested. “Or wait them out if a siege is what they want.”

The ground shook again, this time dislodging some rubble from a side wall. “Not an option,” Kay said shortly, as though they weren’t seeing the structure collapse before their eyes. “Evacuation was _made_ to be necessary. They were counting on it.”

Jyn didn’t know why it was taking everyone this long to see the only option there was left. While they spoke, Cassian leading the even-voiced discussion of the dilemma, she’d crouched by her pack, sifting through what she’d need for what she had planned.

“I think we should hear what Jyn has to say,” Chirrut interrupted, and she looked up, in the middle of pocketing one of Cassian’s guns.

At least a dozen pairs of eyes were on her now, including Cassian, who looked — among other things — nearly resigned to her stealing his weapons during a situation.

“I think it’s obvious what needs to be done,” she said, as calm as Kay or Chirrut. “The faction needs a clear path for evacuation, but the Germans have to be diverted.”

Further back, Baze raised his chin, an approving gleam in his eye, as though he’d guessed the gist of her plan.

“Send me,” Jyn said to Saul. “You taught me how to fight in the forest. To fight in a situation where I’m the one outnumbered. There’s an area where the faction keeps its trucks and spare fuel. I’ll start a diversion there to draw enemy fire, keep them busy while the evacuation goes ahead.”

“Jyn,” Cassian said, quietly.

She didn’t answer him, not because she didn’t want to. Because there was a chance — a small one, but still a chance — that he’d be able to talk her out of it.

“I’m dispensable to the Resistance,” she said to Saul. “You’re not, and your fighters need to stay where they are in case there’s trouble during the evacuation.”

A pause. “I’ll make it out,” she added, as though it was material.

“And how do you intend to reach the plane they’re sending for us?” Kay inquired, with his standard level of remarkable calm, given the circumstances. She appreciated that.

“If I do, I do. If I don’t…” Jyn lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Your life gets much easier.”

She looked away before Kay’s expression could shift. It was enough that she knew he thought of her as a liability, a reason that Cassian might get himself killed. She didn’t need another rendition of his warning.

“One girl against god knows how many German death squads?” Baze snorted. “You’re mad.”

Even in light of the short time she’d spent in the company of Baze Malbus, Jyn thought his response might have been far worse. “Thanks,” she said.

“You’ll never make it on your own,” Cassian added, and the opposition made her defensive again.

“I appreciate the support,” she answered, flatly. “But I’m doing this, because it’s the right thing to do. It’s the _right_ move, and you know it.”

A moment passed, and he reached for the pack at his feet. “I know,” he said, almost a sigh. “That’s why I’m coming with you. Well —” he glanced at Kay, who gave him a deeply doubtful look in return “— we are.”

Jyn almost smiled because of the ludicrous suggestion, a reflexive smile, the kind that greeted uncomfortable segues and bad jokes. “No, you’re not.”

“He forgot the two of us,” Chirrut said. “Baze and I, we follow you. Wherever.”

Kay sighed, loudly. “Apparently, so am I,” he said. “But only because I don’t fancy explaining how I managed to misplace four Resistance operatives.”

The implication being — _Cassian_. He was staying to make sure of his friend’s safety, and Jyn didn’t know if she could bear that burden, that responsibility. It pressed on her now, not just from one, but the others too, as Jyn looked from one face to the other, from Chirrut’s immovable calm, to Baze’s hungry anticipation, to Kay’s resigned exasperation, and last — Cassian.

It was a question she never would have asked, but he’d answered anyway.

“You’ll have to try harder than that to get rid of us,” he said, almost, maybe, teasing her.

Jyn promised to laugh, _later_.

 _If_.

Saul shook his head slowly. “Those are not your orders,” he said. “You made no promises to guarantee our survival.”

Like Jyn, he studied each face as though committing it to memory. “You know what is likely to happen. Five fighters against a German army?”

He turned to Jyn, and she didn’t flinch away when he put a hand on her face.

“And leaving you again, dear heart,” Saul said. “You still haven’t forgiven me for the last.”

“And I won’t forgive you if you risk the future of the Resistance by staying,” she answered, meaning it more than she’d expected, and almost hating herself for it. Not being able to turn away, and risking her friends in the process.

There was too much between them to settle, too much to say without the time to say it.

Saul was a dreamer, and Jyn needed to remind him to keep the dream alive — if there was to be the slightest chance of finding her father. “I have a cause now, don’t I?” she said quietly, knowing that he’d remember Galen, and what she was determined to do in order to find him. “So let me do this.”

It was as if the words had sealed it for real, and Saul gestured with his arm, a movement that brought more figures from the stone caverns, dust-smeared and wearing varying expressions of trepidation, but judging by the bags they lowered (clanking, rattling, like they were full of metal), they were intent on joining the fight.

“We can spare you a group of fighters,” Saul said. “And the weapons you’ll need. What do you intend to do?”

While Kay and Cassian seemed more concerned with looking over the people, Baze put the toothpick he’d been chewing between his teeth and crouched to get at the zip. It spilled open, dislodging a small flood of weapons that looked more stolen than anything else, a patchwork of collected and self-modified arms that reminded Jyn how little things had changed with Saul. She might have been eleven years old again, learning how to shoot, defend, and kill under his watchful eye.

Jyn picked up a silenced rifle, turning it over in her palm. Mines, guns, knives, wire, and a small, untested group of people as patched together as their stolen gear and weapons, with only the singular quality in common of being willing to fight.

“You have a plan?” Cassian asked, and Jyn looked up. He was prompting her, subtly shifting the position of leadership, the reins of control.

As good as putting his life in her hands, and the others too.

Jyn tossed a mine to Cassian, and he caught it without pause. She found a smile, imperfect — but confident enough. “I do,” she said.

He nodded. “Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh, slow burn sucks, doesn't it? Obviously Jyn and Cassian won't have a lot of time to really hash things out for a bit, what with trying not to die, but they'll address it...eventually.  
> Also, is 'Stardust' in Spanish really 'Estrellita'? I know the Spanish subtitles for Rogue One translated 'Stardust' to 'Estrellita', but I'm getting mixed messages here from different people who speak Spanish. Help meeeeee.


	15. Strike Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you for all the responses so far. I know I don't answer a lot, but if I'm answering it means I'm not writing, and my way of paying everybody back is to write and update with the best story I can manage. Just know that what I write wouldn't be half as good without the encouragement (and almost scary-insightful responses to it), so thanks very much!  
> Also, a little advance notice, Cassian does something questionably stone cold in this chapter. I know he's been relatively warm and fuzzy so far, but...gah.

Jyn checked the bolt on her rifle, a De Lisle carbine. It was quiet, a weapon built for assassination and near-silent shots under the cover of darkness, even a busy street, if the need arose. Given their advantage in terms of knowing the terrain, they’d be able to pick off individual members of the squadron if they had a sharpshooter on higher ground.

Baze already had his rifle. Chirrut apparently possessed some skill with a crossbow and incendiaries (how, she didn’t even want to think about).

Kay had a double-edged knife and a perfectly lethal sense of aim when it came to his handguns.

Cassian had both — long-range and short — prepared for any scenario.

The faction members numbered six in total, not all of them French, and none of them familiar. Jyn didn’t remember their names, hearing the countries they were from instead. _Yugoslavia. Greece. Hungary. France_. She could sense their stolen looks, their low murmurs, and she wondered what they’d heard about her — or Cassian, or Kay, or Baze, or Chirrut — and whether they were suicidal, or just keen to be heroes.

No medals or pins would be won tonight. They’d all be lucky to get out with their lives.

Jyn made a mental note to let Cassian talk to the group as a whole instead. The last thing everyone needed was something from her that was about as motivating as Kay offering a three-hour lecture on the meticulous construction of proper disguises, starting from the types of buttons.

She shifted the bag strap where it cut into her shoulder, making the pouch clank from the mines it held, identical to the bags the others carried too. Walking explosives, and all they needed was time, and a trigger.

“Here,” Cassian said, and Jyn broke away from her stream of less-than-positive thoughts to see a shotgun in his hand. “I got it from Baze. It’ll be faster to shoot.”

Not being one to nitpick origins of ownership, Jyn left the De Lisle at her feet and took up the weapon he held out. She tested the weight in her hands, and gave the grip an experimental pump. Smooth, powerful, and very much a weapon she’d use with relish.

And decidedly out of character for a commanding officer who’d made a point not to arm her with dangerous trigger-based weapons.

“So it takes a German squadron and a full-blown crisis for you to give me a gun,” she remarked.

Cassian inclined his head. “I’ve seen you do more without a gun in your hand than some people armed to the teeth,” he said. “Besides, I thought it might suit you better.”

Jyn didn’t exactly disagree. Her usual style was stealthy, but stealth only went so far during all-out war. A shotgun was forgoing all attempt at noise suppression, not to mention a decided emphasis on firing with speed and downing targets with ferocity. She’d have to start with a silenced gun (which she’d been planning to do, anyway), alternate with knives, and switch to the louder weapon once the fighting started for real. “I’m flattered,” she said wryly, and Cassian gave her a smile in return. Short, but warm.

“My job is to observe people,” he said. “That’s my observation.”

Jyn winced when she felt the onset of another tremor, and saw Cassian cast another wary look at the fissures widening in the stone.

“You know,” she said, in an undertone, “I’m starting to think this mission isn’t going to be a blazing success after all.”

Cassian made a face, as though he didn’t much care either way. “I’d settle for a small one,” he answered, and it was Jyn’s turn to smile.

“This place won’t hold for long,” Chirrut stated. He had his crossbow and staff, the mines in a pouch slung across his chest, spare bolts, and not much else. Neither did the rest. They were fighting light, more guerrilla force than actual army.

Saul’s staff cracked on the unstable stone. He’d silenced his captains, who’d been voicing objections against him remaining any longer, but he’d ignored them, in favor of final appraisal he all gave the assembled group of fighters.

“None of us will forget what you do tonight,” he said huskily. “Your efforts may well make the difference between victory and defeat for the Resistance.”

It was Jyn he turned to last, but Saul had never been the kind to say goodbye with embraces, much less with tears shed. He was steel and fire, and he’d trained her well.

“May we meet again,” she said.

Saul looked regretful — sincerely so — and he cupped her face in his hands, touching his lips to her forehead in goodbye. Jyn felt a prickle of familiarity, because hadn’t Galen or Lyra done the same? “May we meet again, Jyn Erso. Today is not your day to die.”

Jyn nodded. “I’ll remember that.”

“Once the explosions start, get moving,” Cassian said to the captains. “Good luck.”

Saul’s grip on her hand set off another memory, of her past life as his adopted daughter, and Jyn genuinely felt the reluctance when his scarred fingers began to slip from hers. Their gazes caught, held, and Saul nodded, with the full force of belief behind his eyes.

Jyn nodded back, and she watched Saul go with something like finality, until he vanished through a darkened stone archway with the last flare of lit torches.

Just them, at the heart of a crumbling mountain.

“May God be with us all,” Chirrut said quietly.

Jyn faced the others again. Eleven in all, including herself. But the four who mattered the most. “Not too late to back out,” she said, unsure if she meant it.

Baze snorted. “Not a chance in hell. I need to shoot something.”

“As Mr Guerra says,” Chirrut translated, “our actions may make the difference between victory and defeat. Even if our orders may say otherwise.”

A look flickered between Kay and Cassian, because the two of them were the ones who knew the official orders best, and the former — taking it all in with one of his gauging sweeps — nodded. “The mission was to unite the Resistance factions. I can’t see a successful outcome that includes Mr Guerra and his compatriots dying from a German ambush.”

Jyn glanced at Cassian last, and he nodded too. “It’s our mission, and we’ll see it through to the end.”

_We_. It seemed like a lifetime ago since she’d been part of something, that she’d been more than just alone and determined to do nothing except survive.

Now there were four people who’d trusted her word, who were prepared to fight shoulder to shoulder alongside her, and it was nothing like what she’d experienced before. Not as a part of Saul’s band of mercenaries, not as the half-child who’d clawed and scrapped to survive on the streets.

It felt suspiciously — tenuously — like they’d become a team, and something else, something _more_ that made her chest tight, at the thought that it might not last until the next dawn.

“Right.” Jyn shouldered her gun, and took a deep, rallying breath, because there was something more important than all of them, something more important than an abandoned child wanting to belong. “Then let’s move. We don’t have much time.”

The circle held for just a second more, then they moved to do as she said.

* * *

Cassian ran through the maps of the terrain he’d seen before, in their varying stages of completeness and accuracy. The forest and mountainside had only been sketched in brief, which meant they’d have to rely on improvization as well as split-second tactical choices to ensure the Germans would be diverted for as long as possible.

_Diverted_.

Not a word that left much room for the possibility of survival.

None of them here were green in the slightest. Baze and Chirrut were veterans of a war that had shocked the world in its capacity to produce horrors above and beyond what the human mind could imagine, he and Kay were intelligence officers with a history of military service, and they’d been joined by a small — but hardy — band of Guerra faction members, who’d defined insurgency tactics and guerrilla fighting forces in a way Europe had hardly seen (he ran through their names now, committing them to memory: _Rostok. Lagos. Arnaud. Melshi. Dubois. Horvath_ ).

And Jyn. Someone who defied description. A hard-eyed cynic who’d been raised on the streets but was more determined than all of them not to fail.

Jyn led the way, forging through the ruin of felled trees and rubble with the agility of a forest animal, springing over obstacles and through crevices like she knew it by heart. They were retracing their steps from when they’d arrived, from the caves back to the vehicle yard — always on the lookout for enemy fire.

It was almost eerily silent. Whatever the earthquake had done — or whatever had in turn triggered it — there was nearly no sign that the forest was something living at all. The same thick cloud of fog had seeped through the trees, thickened by the dust raised from the debris and destruction.

Cassian catalogued the mayhem in his mind, silencing the throng of unanswered questions that continued to demand an answer. At least the terrain would keep the Germans from using heavy artillery — no tanks, no vehicles that couldn’t survive on rough terrain. Just men and weapons. Numbers, and the presumed advantage of surprise. And they’d be hunting. Scorched earth to find the prominent rebel who’d spent the better part of their violent conquest evading capture and publicly embarrassing them in displays of graphic patriotism.

It almost sounded like someone else’s war, only they were the ones who’d be fighting for their lives.

“You gave her a shotgun,” Kay said, in an undertone. “I can’t pretend that isn’t the _least_ bit concerning.”

“Should I have saved it for you?” Cassian answered. Dire situations always brought out his ill-timed tendencies towards humor.

Kay had always been able to play along. “Rather too American for me,” he sniffed. “But I appreciate the thought.”

Cassian inclined his head, still sweeping the dim forest — what little they could see of it, anyway — with his rifle at the ready. “You might have made a good cowboy in another life.”

“I think I can say with utter certainty that I’ll take my chances with this one, thanks.”

There was a pause.

“Cassian, you do know what the chances are of us surviving this mission, don’t you?” Kay spoke only as loudly as he needed to be audible.

Cassian stepped over a twisted branch, snapped in the middle with its soft white center showing like bone protruding through skin. “Not high.”

“Thirty percent, maybe less,” he said. “We’re outnumbered. Most certainly outgunned. Some of us have never worked or fought together as a unit. No escape — or less than a shot in hell of reaching it. We don’t know what caused the earthquake or wiped the town from the face of the earth, and we don’t know if they can do it again. I can’t think of a single advantage we have other than the element of surprise, and that’s a great deal short of being bulletproof.”

Cassian’s eyes sought Jyn out in the dark. Past Chirrut’s gently sweeping cloak, and Baze’s heavier tread. Faction members, marching as soldiers with a cause. Her shoulders were set, head held high. Whatever she was fighting for, it was worth more than taking out her anger on Saul, enough to put her life on the line to see the mission — a mission she hadn’t even asked for — through to the end.

“I can think of one thing,” he said. “Hope.”

Kay might have rolled his eyes. “Oh,” he answered. “ _That_.”

Cassian nearly smiled. “It’s been an honor, Major Kay.”

Kay sighed. “Likewise, Captain Andor.”

Jyn stopped walking, and they slowed too, taking in the scene. Night was falling fast, but he could see that the clearing was more or less intact, marred by debris and several fallen trees, their roots ripped violently from the soil like the grisly evidence of some unseen act of violence. The trucks, cars and crates were still shielded by camouflaged canvas tents, but a pine had crashed vertically into one of the trucks, crushing the back and leaving it open to the sky. The ground crunched with dry needles, and the air tasted like rust and dirt.

Cassian ground the powder between his gloved fingers. “It’ll catch,” he said. “The fires’ll go sky high.”

“There should be a ridge further up,” Jyn said, peering through the fog. “We’ll need snipers at vantage points —”

“—me,” said Baze, already eyeing a likely spot.

“— and someone to start a few fires.”

Chirrut tapped his crossbow against a tree. “I think I might be able to manage that.”

Jyn nodded. She had dirt smeared on the side of her face, and a thin sheen of sweat from the hike. Cassian felt a stab of concern — what if she collapsed in the middle of the fight?

But she’d gone to dig beneath the ruins of a canvas tent, and one of the faction bent to help her (Cassian flicked through the faces and corresponding names — _Melshi_ ), and together they pulled out a battered motorcycle that looked like it had seen better days.

“Fighting on the ground is a last resort,” she said, straightening up again. “Count on the ones already there to flush targets your way. That’ll be the five of us.”

She gestured at herself, Kay, and three of the faction. “The Germans’ll be searching the woods by now. If their scout got close to the caves, it means they’re near. I’ll lure them in, then it’s confusion tactics to separate the packs. Herd, and destroy.”

“Sounds simple enough to me,” Kay deadpanned. “I can’t think of any reason to be concerned.”

“I thought you might,” she responded, no less sarcastic, even in a crisis.

“Are you sure?” Cassian asked. “I can lure them in.”

Jyn shook her head. “You’re a better shot than I am,” she said. “Besides, I’ve done this before.”

“Of course you have,” Kay muttered. “Dare I ask how it ended?”

“One day, I’ll show you the scar.” Jyn slung the shotgun crosswise and opened the flap on the pouch holding the mines. “Now let’s get started.”

* * *

Jyn gave the motorcycle one last inspection, mentally skimming through the planned route as she did. Allowances would have to be made for debris, and only bare moments to adapt to impromptu obstacles. The borrowed motorcycle had clearly passed the prime of its use, picked apart and back together to do the job. It had been years since she’d reverted back to guerrilla tactics, having defaulted to street fighting, which she could do. Needless to say they weren’t the same thing, and she hoped that what she’d been taught would come back to her, one way or another.

There was a deep rumble in the distance, and more rustling as the mountain eroded still further from the unexplained earthquake. Jyn tried not to visualize the faces waiting in the tunnels, the lives that depended on whether or not they managed to do this.

Kay brushed dust fastidiously from his hands. “All done, I believe.”

He — like the others — were about to take up their final positions in the trap. Baze was eyeing the forest with intense dislike, which she took as a sign that he was ready to fight, while Chirrut had been muttering a low-voiced litany of prayers the whole while.

Kay helped her adjust the strap of her gun, which she supposed was a kindness — or because he thought they weren’t likely to survive. Jyn’s throat felt dry, so she didn’t speak, only tucked the crystal beneath the collar of her shirt and checked to make sure the knife was in her sleeve.

Cassian was waiting, scanning the trees like there were unfriendly eyes watching. He looked faintly out of place with a rifle, despite handling it with ease, as though Jyn had become used to seeing him with stealth weapons — guns that could be tucked out of sight, blades that could be concealed from view. He was fighting, not running, even though he’d only ever been a spy to her, not a soldier.

This was her doing, and for all the things that Jyn was uncertain of, she _was_ sure of one thing — if Cassian died, she’d never forgive herself.

Jyn wondered if this was what Kay had meant, and if he’d say it was her fault.

But there wasn’t the time for that.

Jyn climbed onto the motorcycle, gripping the handlebars with her gloved hands. She was about to die next to people whose names she couldn’t even remember.

“Whatever you do, stay up there and keep shooting,” she said, in what she hoped was a convincing tone of voice. “Good luck.”

They nodded, and backed away into the fog. Cassian lingered, the last to go, and Jyn didn’t move. Whatever this was, she sensed it didn’t have anything to do with the fight, and wasn’t meant to be overheard.

Like with Saul, there was too much to say, and no time to say it in.

Jyn half-expected him to ask if she was serious, maybe an abridged version of a lesson on reliable tactics. But he didn’t. As always, an unpredictable element and a surprise. “Be careful,” he said, finally.

“You too,” she answered. “I don’t think the Resistance could do without Captain Andor.”

“I wouldn’t worry.” Almost a smile there. “I’m expendable.”

There was something else behind the candor, something both brave and strangely melancholic, that Cassian could admit aloud that he was easy to replace — after dedicating his life to fighting for the cause. He was someone who dealt in deception for a living, yet he reserved the brutal honesty for himself.

Maybe it was to help him feel brave.

Or maybe it was because he believed it for real.

Jyn responded on impulse, reaching out until her knuckles bumped against his arm, almost by accident, until she gripped it tight. Her fingers were at his wrist now, and she could feel his pulse beating beneath the skin, fierce, alive, and not remotely close to expendable.

_Not to me_. Not in the least — only he didn’t know it, and Jyn doubted she’d ever tell him. So she let go, curling her fingers back into a fist at her side. Another look flashed between them, and she nodded, not trusting her words. But she did watch as Cassian vanished into the fog like the others, silent as a ghost.

There was a fallen tree at her back, marking the start of the kill zone, the finish line for her race, if she made it that far. Jyn took a deep breath, and started the engine. It wouldn’t have been loud — not unless the forest was deathly silent, and it was. She revved it once, twice, making sure it was as good as a beacon for any scouting party waiting in the forest. The forest floor was rough ground, and she kicked off with a lurch and a mechanical roar, speeding ahead and through trees with no effort at being clandestine.

It wasn’t exactly a bucket of bloody meat, or the banging of war drums to signal the enemy, but close enough.

It didn’t take long. Not long at all.

The first shot raised a few leaves near her right boot, so soundless that she almost didn’t catch it, until the second whizzed past her ear. Jyn could see shapes moving in the fog, and she stayed long enough to make sure that she was being followed, before she whirled in a spray of dirt and the rumble of an engine, taking off the way she’d come.

Trees and branches obscured the path, but the rapid patter of gunshots ensured that they were in hot pursuit. She could hear them shouting now, having sighted a resistance fighter at last. The ground shuddered again from another aftershock, and Jyn pushed through, skidding only slightly to keep her balance.

The wind tore past her cheeks and hair, and she bent low to give them less of a target. Obstacles appeared and vanished in her wake, and when she saw the mottled trunk of the massive fallen tree bloom in front of her eyes — phosphorus white under the headlights, she slammed the brakes, _hard_.

The motorcycle’s whirring tires cleared a furrow of soil as it skidded towards the solid obstacle, and Jyn had only seconds to act before it slammed her into the tree too. She let go of the handlebars and put her boot on the seat while it careened, using it as a springboard to leap on top of the fallen tree and then clear of it.

A bullet smashed into the bark near her foot, raising a puff of wood splinters, and Jyn dropped over the other side with barely a sound, taking off at a run.

She wound her way around the scattered vehicles, trucks and crates in the abandoned yard, a maze-like diversion all on its own. She could still hear their guns, the stamp of their boots — they were following her, trying to get around and over the tree that blocked their way.

Rough bark dug into her palms as she seized handholds on the nearest tree, and began to climb, counting on the fog to hide her. Her wound was starting to hurt, a tugging sensation in her flesh, underneath skin and close to the bone, but that could wait. What mattered was the plan.

_Now,_ she thought. _Now_.

Again, she didn’t have to wait long.

Fire bloomed bright in the dark forest, tearing towards the sky, and one by one, the mines began to go off.

* * *

The fires raged, spewing black smoke into the air and adding to the fog already obscuring the forest. The source? Gasoline from the supply stack in the canvas tents, and the vehicles scattered around the yard — all trapped with mines and explosives, the former rigged to detonate at the time allotted, and the blast had taken at least ten of the soldiers who’d gone too close.

Jyn had lured them in. Now it was time for them to do their part.

“Good work,” Cassian muttered, his eye pressed to the sight on his rifle. Now the fighting would be close-quarters, and messy.

He’d seen Jyn dump the motorcycle and use it as a stepping block to get over the barricade with near-disbelief. For someone still recovering from an injury, she didn’t show any sign of it — much less room for weakness, as though pain and physical strain were things she could push aside, to deal with only when it was convenient. She’d found cover in a tree, and he didn’t doubt that she was getting ready for the ambush.

He shifted his grip on the gun, watching through the scope. He’d cover her, without question.

Kay was at his hiding spot behind two inconspicuous boulders. He raised his hand to signal, and Cassian nodded, despite knowing that his answer couldn’t be seen.

Chirrut and Baze were spaced further along the ridge, the other snipers further still and at random, meant to create confusion as to where enemy fire was coming from.

Cassian spotted Jyn shadowed on the branch of a tree, a grappling wire coiled in her hand, braced to swing. There was a soldier stalking the ground behind the tree, and Cassian squeezed the trigger without hesitation. He fell without a sound, a dead body lost in the leaves.

The soldier’s fellows hadn’t seen the shot or heard it over the roar of the flames, and they fanned out through the darkness now, searching for shapes, for shooters. Everywhere might have been deserted, they’d see the lurking ghosts of fierce rebels waiting to claim their blood.

Fear was powerful, and fear was what he was counting on. The Germans had tried to be Goliath, forgetting that David wasn’t meant to be estimated, and now they were paying for it.

Cassian picked his targets from the edges, soundless shots they wouldn’t see until it was too late. Kay and Jyn were both on the ground, waiting for opportunities to shave off the stragglers. Every now and then, a soldier fell from a shot that wasn’t his — Baze. Once or twice from a crossbow bolt that glimmered with fire.

Divide, and conquer.

Cassian scanned the darkness, counting however many soldiers there were left. They’d picked off some of them, but there was at least two squadrons left somewhat intact. Not clear of the woods, not even close.

A thought bloomed bright in his mind, then, like a promise. If he died, and if there was such a thing as a next life, he’d come to find her. The story wasn’t finished, not with her, or him. He’d find her for sure.

It felt suspiciously like hope, and Cassian held it with him as he found his next target, and shot.

* * *

Jyn lost count of how many soldiers they’d taken out with the trap. She’d watched from above, not giving away her position as they’d fallen almost in sequence, crumpling and folding in on themselves in time to the sniper shots through the trees.

The tremors made the tree unsteady footing, and she had to grip the wire she’d strung around a thick branch so tightly that it was cutting off the blood flow to her hand. At least two dozen soldiers were left, and they were starting to realize that the rebels weren’t anywhere close to the explosion site.

“Trees,” came the short order from below, and they pressed ahead. Pairing off and circling the obstacles, checking corners, shadows and crevices. They were searching for snipers, and careful to take cover, not to expose themselves to a sudden shot from an unseen rifle.

_Perfect._

Jyn chose her target and adjusted her grip on the wire. The branch shifted slightly under her toes, a silent balance liable to tip at the slightest careless movement. She’d need to fall fast, and move quick. Bracing herself for the drop, she inhaled deep, and stepped into nothingness.

She plunged towards the ground, the wire zipping between her fingers, and she hurtled at the pair of soldiers who were the last to go. The one on the left turned just in time for her boots to catch him in the chest and ram him headfirst into the ground. She landed on one knee, sinking into the bed of pine needles and ash, but the knife was out of her sleeve in a second, and she whirled. The right one only lasted long enough for her slash to catch him through the esophagus, and was choking on his blood when she sank the blade into his stomach, until her knuckles were flush against his convulsing muscles.

Cutting someone’s throat was messy, and Jyn could taste blood in her mouth, along with a sticky spray drying rapidly on her cheeks. But she didn’t have the luxury to think about it, so she reclaimed her knife from the dying soldier and slipped behind an overturned truck to search for her next targets in the dark.

Slow, but steady.

Divide and conquer.

* * *

Cassian ducked instinctively as the _rat-tat-tat_ of gunfire found the stone near his head. He could feel the grit raining down on his neck; they were too close to the collapsing mountain. The soldiers were getting harder and harder to target, now that they knew there were snipers and had adjusted their strategy accordingly. Now they were firing back, and lobbing grenades towards their position with increasing accuracy.

They’d lost at least two of Guerra’s men in the team on the ground, one to a volley of gunshots after he’d been cornered, the other to a screaming inferno hurled by a soldier armed with a flamethrower. One of Guerra’s in the sniper line had been taken out too — a grenade had gotten him and enveloped him in a blast that no one could hope to survive. Cassian didn’t even know the man’s name, his age, or his family, just that their side was short one gunman, and he had to make up for it.

The fires raging in the abandoned yard chased away the shadows, creating visibility where there should have been none. Cassian made the ones with flamethrowers the priority, knowing that Kay and Jyn were both stealthily surprising the soldiers one by one.

Cassian was lining up a shot to a soldier’s carelessly exposed shoulder when a tree near his target exploded into flames, careening sideways with an ominous groan. A dark shape raced out from the shadows, with more hostiles in pursuit. _Jyn_. She ran, using one of the branches on the fallen tree as a foothold, and sprang up the curved side to get over the obstacle. But a gunshot rang out, and he saw her twist — the movement awkward and forced — before she fell out of sight behind the tree.

She didn’t appear again, and he cursed, scanning the uneven shadows for signs of her. The soldiers were still following, and one of them had a flamethrower.

_Whatever you do, stay up there and keep shooting,_ she’d told him.

Cassian knew the plan, but he also knew that if Jyn was in his position — hell had a better chance of freezing over than her staying put, especially if one of them was in the line of fire. For all her defensive posturing of being a loner, unreliable, and self-serving, Jyn had a weakness when it came to the people she’d let under her guard, and Cassian couldn’t let her down now.

So he swung the rifle onto his shoulder and raced clear of his position, sliding down the side of the ridge with one hand thrown out to brace his movement. He’d given himself away, and an explosion erupted where he’d been just seconds before, scattering dirt and solid rock that pelted him like shrapnel.

But Cassian plunged into the scant safety of the trees and followed Jyn into the dark.

It was too dangerous to call out for her, and the heat of the fires blurred his vision with a shimmering haze, making him throw his arm up to shield his eyes. Cassian stayed low, armed with his rifle, searching for signs of her.

_Damn it to hell_.

Rounding a corner, he heard a groan and tensed, nearly firing until he saw the blackened shape half-wedged between a fallen tree and the warped side of a blasted oil drum. The man’s face was caked with fresh blood and dirt, but Cassian saw pale hair, bright blue eyes. _Horvath_.

Armed with a soldier’s rifle and a belt full of grenades, he’d looked like a seasoned fighter, but now — gasping for breath and reaching for help — he looked his age. Barely past twenty.

“ _Shh_ ,” Cassian said, going on his knees and putting his gloved hand over Horvath’s mouth. He was making gurgling noises, like an old man trying to get something clear of his throat, and Cassian checked the part of Horvath that was pinned between two immovable pieces of debris to confirm what he already knew.

A mortal wound. Bleeding in the abdomen. Maybe hours. A day, if the hemorrhage was stopped in time, leaving him ripe for the onset of a lethal infection.

It was more than enough time for him to be taken in by the Germans as a prisoner of war and interrogated. Drugged, kept dazed and stupid, on the brink of death and fearful of it — who knew what anyone would say?

Cassian couldn’t take that risk, and he’d been trained not to.

“Shh,” he said again, showing Horvath that he was lowering his rifle to the ground. Just as carefully, he removed the hand blocking Horvath from making noises, and gripped his arm — reassuring, calm. “It’s all right. It’s going to be all right. I promise.”

Horvath wasn’t a French name, and Cassian had no idea whether the man understood him or not, but the blue eyes (not like Jyn’s, not like Kay’s) were focused on Cassian’s face like he couldn’t see anything else.

Pulling the trigger was silent, the hidden gunshot even more so, and the only sign that it had worked was Horvath seizing up in a sudden convulsion, like he’d been yanked around the middle by an invisible wire, his eyes open wide and lips slightly parted like he’d been about to speak.

Only a bubble of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth, and Cassian watched until the light faded from Horvath’s eyes.

It wasn’t the first killing he’d executed, either out of mercy or necessity. He’d saved the stranger at his feet a slow death and plenty of pain. That was what Cassian told himself, as he slipped the silenced pistol back into his belt and took up his rifle again.

Horvath looked like an accuser, lying there with his eyes open and unseeing, and Cassian slowly backed away, telling himself it wasn’t guilt. That it was the least terrible option out of a range of few.

More importantly — and the single thought cut through the haze of what he’d just done — finding Jyn would be his way of atoning for it. Not in whole, not even close. Only a step towards making certain things right. Something pure, something untainted, just for once.

Cassian left the young, dead fighter where he lay, and forced himself to run, run, _run_.

* * *

Jyn was bleeding. Her wound felt hot, and she kept having to push aside the stubborn image of her insides filling with blood, because she couldn’t spare the hand to brace her stinging side, racing from cover to cover.

There were at least three damn flamethrowers, and her only option where they were concerned was to outrun them. She’d already lost a knife trying for a lethal throw, and there was a cluster of soldiers moving in on her position, a pack of hounds hunting for a lone fox.

Jyn chanced a look, and took off at a sprint again, through the trees and under the sweeping branches. She had a silenced pistol in either hand, but the shotgun kept bumping against her wound as she ran, and she didn’t have the time to shift it.

There was a sudden flare of light in the corner of her vision, and it moved towards her — _fast_ , forcing her to swerve. The burning tree crashed in her path and she sprang up the side with the branches as footholds. She’d almost leapt clear of the tangle when heat bloomed at the side of her calf, and she faltered, losing her balance. A bullet had grazed her leg, sharp and quick but completely short of being painless, and it forced her to roll sideways with a grunt, scrabbling for cover while simultaneously — frustratingly — losing whatever head start she might have had over the soldiers in pursuit. Blood seeped from the wound in her leg, and she instinctively pulled it closer, shrinking to stay out of sight.

Fire crackled close by, a blinding saber that threw the trees into sharp relief. The flames were dark orange and molten, liquid fuel that could melt her skin and bones if she got close (it had gotten one of Saul’s fighters, and she’d hear his screams until the day she died). They were hunting her now, the advantage reversed, and Jyn shoved the pistols back into her belt, reaching for the shotgun instead.

She palmed the grip, holding it diagonal to her chest, and waited, her pulse thudding in suppressed panic.

It was starting to dawn on her — in a belated, utterly unhelpful way — that the plan might not have been one of her best.

And she was in a bad position now, no question there.

Footsteps, dislodging stray rocks and fallen leaves. Jyn could feel her heart in her throat when she pushed against the tree to get her footing, and drove herself to run. Shots rang out and flames spouted into the air behind her, the heat searing at her exposed skin like a visceral threat.

She whirled, pumping the shotgun, and squeezed the trigger. She’d shot blind, and the pellets went clear of her intended target, catching only one of the group that had peeled off to get her. The soldier fell with a ripped stain at the side of his chest, but more importantly, she’d caught a glimpse in the brief second she’d turned, of his comrade made hulking and imposing because of the gear strapped to his shoulders, twin tongues of flame flickering in the reflective lenses of his protective mask.

Jyn’s leg screamed in protest when she turned and shot again, this time taking another soldier out by the knees. The one with the flamethrower kept coming, and when the stream of fire streaked towards her, she threw herself behind a tree, only just managing to avoid it. She could smell singed fabric and burnt hair, a tight, reddish heat on her skin — possibly a burn, maybe worse.

She scrambled up a grassy knoll and retreated into the shadows, her front pressed to the soft earth. Like the cave, while Krennic’s guards had searched for her in the valley. She’d shrink out of sight, and wait. Wait for her chance.

She’d lost the shotgun somewhere during the run, and her pursuers were closing in. She listened, barely able to hear them over the sound of her heart slamming against her ribs. They were splitting off, sweeping the area for their prey, and Jyn knew she’d only have seconds to act.

She could feel the heat beneath the knoll and the whoosh of boiling air as the flamethrower razed the area beneath her. Slowly, carefully, her hand slipped into the inside pocket of her vest, for something she’d picked up, just in case. The spool of wire felt sharp-edged and unforgiving to her throbbing fingers, but she wound it between them nonetheless, pulling until the length of spun steel was taut.

_One chance._

Jyn silently pushed off the ground and inched towards the edge of her hiding place, until she could see what she was facing. The flamethrower was scanning the scorched clearing with his back to the knoll, and Jyn moved before he could realize his mistake.

Too close, because she’d aimed with a purpose. Instead of dropping behind him, Jyn landed _on_ her target. Her elbows slammed into his shoulders, making contact with the metallic piping and padded shoulder straps with bruising impact, her knees digging into his sides to anchor her weight. But before he could react with more than a grunt of surprise, she’d whipped the wire in front of his throat and yanked with all the strength she had.

Jyn felt something burst and tear around her ribs as her upper body arched backwards, straining from the effort of trying to strangle an armed soldier at least twice her size, risk of getting shot and burned to death be damned. Teeth gritted, she hauled with both hands until she couldn’t feel her fingers, holding on for all she was worth.

She’d underestimated the thickness of the fire-protective gear, and instead of choking from a steel wire twisting his windpipe shut, the soldier swung around like a wild horse trying to throw a stubborn rider off its back, until one of the blind swings slammed Jyn injured side-first into a solid tree trunk. The impact set off a dozen bright lights inside her skull, and dazed her just enough for the soldier to seize the scruff of her collar, and _hurl_.

Jyn flew about five feet and landed hard on her back, her ears ringing from some kind of knock to the head she hadn’t even noticed. She could taste blood in her mouth now, _hers_ , not some enemy soldier’s, and a heavy boot slammed into her injured side, sending her rolling even further.

She ended up on her front this time, facing the crystal that had fallen out from her shirt during the fight. It gleamed like a star against the blackened, arid soil, and she sucked in ragged breaths that tasted of iron, too dazed to move even though all her instincts were shrieking at her to _keep going_.

The soldier was half-doubled over and trying to regain his breath, but that barely bought her a handful of seconds before she saw the flames flicker at the head of the nozzle, and she wondered if there was a way that the fire could kill her before she felt the pain.

Only it didn’t come.

Something soared out of the dark and went through the tubes connecting fuel and flamethrower with a _snick_. The other soldiers that were supposed to have provided support were nowhere to be seen, but before Jyn could do more than brace, a blast ripped through the air and the flamethrower froze with a hole blown straight through his chest, protective gear and all.

Jyn blinked after he crumpled, rolling onto her side and searching the trees, expecting to see Kay.

She should have known.

Drawing breath was as good as inhaling acid, but she needed her voice for this. “I thought…I told you to stay up there,” she gasped, and Cassian offered her a hand to help her back to her feet.

Something was different about his face, either imagined or real, but it was a look — a manner, a _shadow_ — apparent enough to give her pause. “What happened?” she asked, as though they weren’t in the middle of a losing fight. “Are you —?”

Quick as a flash, whatever it was — _gone_. Left in its place was a Cassian that was breathing hard and had blood crusted down the side of his face, but she took all of it in — _him_ — with a rush of something effervescent and unnameable, knowing only that it felt _good_. And _right_.

Like Cassian smiling at her in the gloom with her hand in his. “I know,” he said. “Change of plan.”

Jyn’s returning smile didn’t last long, because she stumbled almost as soon as she tried to stand, and Cassian caught her with an arm around her waist. “My leg,” she said angrily. “I’ll be fine.”

Cassian didn’t seem to think they had the time or capacity to dispute reality, and ducked underneath her arm so that she could lean on him while they moved. “Come on,” he said. “We’re almost through.”

* * *

Cassian lost count of how many soldiers he’d killed so far, not from a distance, but with his hands and pulled triggers, letting the bodies fall where they would ( _Horvath, Horvath who’d been dying, Horvath who he’d shot_ ). He was covered in dirt from the fight, battered, nearing exhaustion, and determined to push ahead.

Jyn wasn’t much better, what with her old wound and the acquisition of new ones to add to the roster, notably — _worryingly_ — a close scrape with a gun that had the bottom half of her leg stained red and steady enough only to marginally bear her weight, least of all sustain the exertion of anything more than a limp. It had probably only been a graze, nothing serious in theory, but was acting up with a vengeance because of her insistence to use it beyond all capacity. Not that she’d had a choice — he would have done the same.

Cassian scanned the darkness for signs of life, his gun at the ready. Jyn’s arm was curled — under protest — behind him, and she communicated in silent taps on his back to signal hostiles when they appeared. He shot, and so did she, hissing breaths between her teeth as audible manifestations of pain, and they left a trail of bodies in their wake.

Crossbow bolts that burned like tiny lights continued to streak at caches of fuel and gasoline, creating explosions to catch soldiers off-guard. Baze and Chirrut were still shooting, but Cassian had joined the fight on the ground.

He wasn’t surprised that the soldiers seemed to keep coming — slowed only by the obstacles they’d thrown in the way. It was a force meant to capture Saul Guerra, after all.

Whatever the sense of hope was, and where it lingered, Cassian could only afford to sense it as he fought, side by side with Jyn, whose resolve not to fail burned as bright as a falling star. Tooth and nail, for as much time as they could get, so that the faction — and with it, a chance of winning the war— could flee the forest.

Jyn fired off a shot behind her but lost her footing with a muffled curse, and Cassian covered their position while they retreated behind a blasted truck. She was still struggling to stand when a soldier appeared without warning from behind their hiding place, and Cassian did the first thing he could — threw his arms across the man’s throat, compressing vocal chords and yanking him towards the ground. With one sickening wrench of his shoulders, the soldier’s neck snapped like a bent twig, and Cassian looked up to find Kay standing over a similarly deceased German, staring at him like he was an anomaly on the battlefield, soot and blood smeared down his clothes and front.

“Aren’t you supposed to be up there?” Kay said.

Cassian got to his feet again, jerking his head at Jyn, who was white-faced and still refusing to accept her inability to stand without support. “Change of plan.”

Semi-automatic gunfire peppered the truck at their back, and they both ducked out of sight again, waiting as the metal rattled from the shots. “ _Bugger_ ,” Kay said, as the chamber in his gun clicked, empty. He yanked a fresh rifle from the soldier whose neck Cassian had snapped and checked to make sure it was loaded.

“Good news — I think we’ve eliminated the pesky flamethrowers,” he said, as though they weren’t currently being shot at.

“Fantastic,” Jyn said sarcastically, out of breath. “Now that leaves the rest of the fighting force.”

Before Kay could make a retort, she — armed with a stolen rifle — fired off a line of shots across the top of the truck.

None came in answer, and they all paused, cautious and unwilling to believe their luck. The gunfire seemed to have died down, even if the fires were still raging strong, and Kay twisted a cracked side mirror on the truck to see past the corners. “Is it wishful thinking, or do the Jerrys appear to be pulling back?”

Cassian hadn’t felt another aftershock — not one strong enough to justify an interrupted assault, anyway. “I don’t know,” he said, still waiting for more fire. “But it’s not good.”

“I thought _I_ was the pessimist. How can you —”

They heard it then, the roar of an engine. Coming from the air. Which meant artillery gunfire, or worse — bombs.

“Run,” Cassian said, and Jyn reached automatically for him before they raced for cover again.

* * *

Jyn’s hands were shaking, covered in blood and ash. Her leg was starting to tremble uncontrollably, the wound soaking into the leather of her boot and sock. But she pushed, harder, armed with her knife because her gun had long since run out, and cursed at the pain and the shaking, fiercely and with utter abandon. The only advantage seemed to be a lack of German soldiers, but it wasn’t because they’d succeeded — but because they were about to be outgunned in an aerial assault they didn’t have a hope of winning.

“Look out!” Cassian was still supporting her weight, and pushed her behind another overturned truck, taking cover too.

A plane streaked through the sky, the aircraft guns pattering rounds with rapid precision. It took out the remaining mines they’d left in the yard, tearing trees in half with the resulting detonations, and slammed into the truck they’d ducked under, leaving gaping, smoking holes in the hull.

It wouldn’t stand another hit.

“ _Merde_ ,” Jyn cursed.

“I quite agree,” Kay said, tossing aside another useless weapon. “I believe this might be the end of the line for us.”

Jyn was between Kay and Cassian, her heart pounding, inhaling the fumes of ash and blood like them both. Something rose in her chest, injustice and regret and all the things she’d wanted to say as the plane pulled up into a slow, almost lazy circle. Altitude. Which meant they were about to drop a bomb.

Jyn turned to look at Cassian in the half-light. She could feel a patch of something damp and hot against her elbow where her arm touched his. So he was wounded too, injuries sustained in their common fight. Still, he nodded, grimy and exhausted and more alive than she’d ever seen. Not a spy working towards an end result he didn’t believe in, but someone with a cause to fight for, with everything he had.

“Next time, you come up with the plan,” she said, and his teeth flashed in a brief, instinctive smile.

“You’re better at the speeches anyway,” he answered.

Jyn felt for Cassian’s hand in the dirt and pushed her fingers through the gaps between his, squeezing tight. His surprise was apparent at first, but Jyn refused to feel self-conscious, staring straight ahead into the trees. Because to hell with all of it. They were backed into a proverbial corner, about to die, and she was going to hold onto him — to one of the bravest people she’d ever met, who hadn’t abandoned her despite all the reasons in the world to do it, and she was more grateful than she could say.

Somehow, it was always more than she could say.

They were holding onto each other now, so tight that it was almost painful, but it was the kind of pain Jyn didn’t mind, not at all. “Do you think they got out?” she asked.

Cassian didn’t need to ask who or what she’d meant. It was on everyone’s minds. “I think so,” he said. “We gave them the time they needed.”

Kay had been unusually silent, despite the fact that his predictions regarding the effect of Jyn’s behavior on Cassian were about to be proved incredibly right — albeit in an outcome that involved him dying too.

Jyn didn’t expect it, but she genuinely didn’t want to see Kay hurt, for all those times she’d imagined throwing a punch or kick in his insufferable smug expression. Despite his cool exterior and studied distance, Kay cared about Cassian, enough to join him despite lacking the trust in someone like her, someone he saw as a liability (and right he was), all because his best friend in the world trusted the person leading them into battle.

A part of her regretted not having the chance to create even a fraction of that friendship.

“You know, I might have been wrong about you, Miss Erso,” Kay said. “You’re capable of much more than acting in self-interest.”

Jyn managed a smile — shaky, startled and incredibly inappropriate for their situation. “Even if it’s about to get us all killed?”

Kay lifted a shoulder. “You’ve never been one to act in moderation.”

“I’m sorry,” she said to him. “Really.”

Kay nodded, and Jyn let the back of her head touch the metal. Cassian’s hand was still in hers, reassuringly there to the end, and she used the other to feel for the crystal, slicking it with blood as she gripped it in her palm. Her father and mother, Saul’s ringing voice, Kay’s unexpected chuckle and Cassian’s hand on her forehead, his shoulder against her cheek in the dark…

She wasn’t ready to die, not by a long shot, but it was coming any minute now.

She could almost hear the rotor blades on the shell hurtling towards them, and she closed her eyes.

_I’m sorry, papa_.

There was an explosion that made her bones shake, a visceral pulse of energy as a supernova in the sky, but they weren’t dead — blasted to pieces, or even injured, not more than they already were.

Because someone had shot the bomb before it could hit ground.

Cassian looked up. “What the hell?”

Another plane streaked across the treetops, its guns firing madly at the darker German plane. It was smaller, more compact, but it twisted and swung in the air like it was some kind of bird of prey, powered by an inhuman force of luck and nature.

Jyn felt the crystal dig into the skin of her palm, as though in response to the rising feeling of hope in her chest.

“What in God’s name do you call this?” Kay said incredulously, as the German plane erupted into fire and the smaller plane swept across the sky with less than a pause.

“There’s only one person I know who flies like that,” Cassian said, sounding like he could barely believe it himself. “And he’s _mad_.”

Kay made a noise between indignation and disbelief. “You’re not serious. I thought he left France when we missed the rendezvous.”

It took Jyn a second to guess what — _who_ — they’d meant, and she started to laugh, hoarse and disbelieving and sounding less than herself.

Maybe, just maybe, they’d live through the night after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bwahahaha. Guess who?  
> Thanks for all the responses clearing up my confusion about "Stardust". Also hahaha I did not know that “polvo” could mean something incredibly rude in Spanish. So...maybe I'll steer clear of that one. Thanks for answering!!!  
> Also, just to forewarn everybody, we’re reaching the end of “Part One” to this fic pretty soon (there's going to be "Part Two", of course). But I have the end of Part One all written up and can I just say: HOO boy, I really hope that nobody ends up hating me :D


	16. Out of the Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting a little early cuz Valentine's Day. Enjoy!

It took less time than they’d expected, finding the plane who’d saved their collective lives. Chirrut had guided them through the forest, helped by Baze. Out of the six faction members who’d gone with them, only two were left. They’d sustained burns from the fight, and so had Jyn (she could feel a patch stinging on her back). But her leg forced her to lean on Cassian while she limped, because the muscles would shake — violently — if she so much as tried to put more weight on the limb than it was prepared to take.

Up close, the plane was almost ostentatiously bright in comparison to the black German bomber it had shot down — storm-gray, streamlined and long-winged in the ruined field. The bay doors were lowered, and she caught the orange-red glimmer of a lit cigarette.

Along with the _click_ of a precautionary gun, and — strangely — a low wolf-like growl.

Then again, given the distinct absence of light beyond a distant, dimmed moon and the cover of fog (it was a miracle he’d even managed to land at all), one couldn’t be too careful.

“Who’s there?” said a voice that was undoubtedly Han’s. “If the name’s Fritz or Helga, you have about two seconds to say your prayers before I sh—”

“ _Han_ ,” Cassian interrupted. “Save the threats for later. It’s us.”

In response, an electric torch flared in Jyn’s eyes, and a second later, she felt a solid weight against her other side, from Han trying to take over as her temporary crutch (he smelled like tobacco and gear oil). Except Cassian seemed reluctant to trust that helpfulness — not unreasonably — and continued to hold onto her arm regardless. Jyn tried to take a step, only to find her way blocked by something immovable — and _furry_ — that nosed at her bloodstained, soot-infused clothes with loud, raspy sniffs.

Han batted at the shape. “Hey, get outta here, you no-good furball,” he said, and it bounded away, back up the ramp and into the plane.

“You brought your _dog_ on a mission?” Cassian sounded exasperated out of reflex, as tired as he was. “Han.”

“Hey, where the Falcon goes, he goes,” Han answered, sharply. “Now does anyone have any objections to getting on my plane and setting course for Big Ben before the Germans send help?”

A pause.

“Didn’t think so.” Han adjusted Jyn’s arm more securely around his neck and shifted her away from Cassian — not really giving either the option to refuse — while he helped her up into the plane. “So what happened to you, sweetheart? Looking a little worse for wear.”

Normally, Jyn would have made him regret the endearment in spades, but Han Solo was a reminder of a time before she had been shot, nearly burned to a crisp, and suffered from a problem of embedded shrapnel. Suffice it to say she welcomed the distraction. “A little — _ah_ — trouble,” she said, trying not to put any unnecessary weight on her leg. “Thought we’d seen the last of you in Nantes.”

Han laughed. “Hey, I keep my promises, and I _said_ I’d be seeing you.” He flicked switches as they passed, and a row of ceiling lights blinked on inside the plane. Cockpit, cargo area, a row of seats on either side…nondescript crates, a bag or two that looked vaguely _smuggled_.

Jyn didn’t have time to see more, because she collapsed into one of the crash seats with a groan, and was almost instantly engulfed by a mass of brown-and-white fur that appeared to be Han’s perpetually curious dog.

It was _massive_ , dark liquid brown eyes she could see because it stood nose to nose with her while she was seated, and Cassian had to intervene before it smothered her out of canine curiosity. “Get out of here,” he said, sounding almost affectionate while he rubbed its ears. Jyn wondered if they’d met before.

“So does someone want to tell me what’s going on?” Han asked, and glanced at Chirrut and Baze, along with the two extra fighters from Saul’s faction, apparently just noticing their presence. “I charge extra for last-minute, you know.”

Instead of his usual sly retort, Kay pinched the cigarette Han had been smoking and took over the effort, inhaling very, very deeply. “You’ll need to be more specific with regards to your query, Mr Solo,” he said, dryly. “I’m afraid we’ve got quite a few eggs in our basket at the moment.”

“Sincere apologies, your majesty,” Han said, with a mocking bow. “I mean — did you guys start an avalanche, or should I pick that bone with Herr Hitler?”

“It’s a long story,” Cassian said. “We think the Germans set off some kind of — _weapon_. It was powerful enough to wipe out a town and their prison camp, and cause an earthquake.”

“You’re kidding,” Han said. “Sounds like hokey science mojo talk. There’s no way that’s true.”

“The mistake with truth is to take what’s easiest to believe,” said Chirrut serenely. “Something strange happened here today, and it’s my belief that discounting it as hearsay would be a mistake.”

Han squinted at Chirrut. “And who are you?”

“Operatives just like us,” Cassian said. “Look, Han, we don’t have a lot of time. HQ needs to know what happened here tonight.”

Han still looked deeply skeptical, but another aftershock made the plane rattle, and Jyn to grip the edge of her seat to stop from tipping, and the others seemed to realize that time was running short.

Good as ever at self-preservation, Han didn’t wait for as second warning. “I think that means it’s time to hit the gas. C’mon, Chewie — leave the girl alone,” he said, snapping his fingers in a gesture that made the dog bound over to him and leap into the cockpit, its massive tail beating a drum-like rhythm against the metal panels when it wagged. “Buckle up, fellas. We’ll be airborne in five.”

The others moved to get their seats. Chirrut and Baze were across the narrow aisle, but Kay moved ahead to speak to Han in the cockpit, while Cassian settled what was left of their gear onto the pile, strapping it beneath the net to avoid tipping.

Jyn winced, pulling herself to sit up straight, and like he could sense whenever she was about to try something painful, Cassian turned back to help her with the safety straps, moving fast and steady in spite of everything. “There’s a first aid kit here somewhere,” he said. “Once we’re in the air, I’ll take a look at your leg.”

“It’s not bad,” she answered reflexively. “Fix yourself first.”

There was a bloodstain on the floor that contradicted her statement, but Cassian moved to strap himself in too. “You’re rambling.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Do you ever listen to what someone else says?” he asked.

“Where’s the fun in that?” she muttered, as the bay doors raised themselves up to seal the entrance, and the plane began to move.

* * *

Jyn’s head knocked against the steel hull of the plane as she peeled her shirt from the bandage it was plastered to. Sweat and blood, sticky as a second skin. And it hurt like _hell_ to pull off.

“Try not to get too excited,” she muttered, as she felt the first shiver of cold air around her middle.

Cassian barely even blinked, taking a single look at the torn stitches protruding like splinters and going straight for the supplies. “I’ll do my best,” he answered, tearing open another sterile gauze packet with his teeth. “We’re moving too much for re-suturing, so the best we can do is put some pressure on the wound.”

“ _Fantastic_ ,” she said, and winced when he pressed on the site, not gently at all.

Cassian passed her the roll of bandages so that she could re-secure the band herself, before moving onto her slowly oozing leg.

“We have a problem,” said Han, and Cassian looked up.

Jyn did too, but he held her down by the arm before she could try to leave her seat. They’d been airborne for less than five minutes, and he’d only just managed to handle the re-opened wound in her side.

“Just one?” he said, and tightened the knot on the bandage around Jyn’s calf, making her hiss at him like a scalded cat. “Sounds like good news.”

“Well, it’s a whopper, all things considered,” Han said, reaching to flick a row of switches. “I'm picking up two hostiles nearby, but it doesn’t look like they’re here for us.”

“That’s not good,” Jyn said, turning to Cassian. “We can’t just leave — they’re going to shell the forest — Saul —”

“I know, I know.” Cassian thought fast, even though the only obvious option was staring them in the face. “Han, we have to turn back.”

Han snorted. “Not an option, pal.”

This time Jyn made it out of her seat faster than Cassian could stop her, stumbling towards the cockpit and nearly falling into Han in the pilot’s seat. “Turn back,” she said, gripping the back of his chair so tightly that her knuckles blanched. “People are going to die unless those two planes are shot down.”

“That’s tough, but in case you haven’t noticed, people die when they’re in planes that gets shot down, especially if the pilot was stupid enough to try and fight the Germans two to one," he retorted. "And _that_ unit of people matters more because one of them includes me. So that’s a hard _no_. We’re flying to London.”

Jyn cursed in a language Cassian didn’t quite catch, and immediately spun around in search of a weapon she could steal — a gun from his belt — an action he prevented by passing the one he had to Kay, who immediately put it behind his back, barely wincing as the movement jarred his injured arm.

“Mr Solo, instances in which I agree with Miss Erso are few and far between, but in this case, the strategically sound thing to do would be creating a diversion,” Kay said, still resolutely holding the gun out of sight while keeping his distance from the inquisitive attentions of Han’s dog. “This plane appears to be well capable of outrunning pursuers, as well as engaging in airborne combat. So —”

“I told you, _no_ ,” Han said. “I don’t care who asks — Queen Victoria, or Old Faithful.” He jerked his head towards Jyn at the latter, which Cassian took as her nickname. “Look, do any of you understand how many hands it takes to pilot _and_ shoot? One plane’s fine, but two? Forget it.”

“So I’ll help,” Cassian said, pointing at the second pilot seat, currently occupied by the large wolf-like dog. “You need someone to operate the offensive? Let me.”

Jyn had gone quiet. “You can do that?”

Han surveyed Cassian with narrowed eyes. “The three of you aren’t gonna shut up unless I turn back, are you?”

Cassian shrugged. “We’re persistent.”

Han rolled his eyes to the ceiling and shooed Chewie off the second seat. “Take care of him,” he said to Jyn. “It’ll be a bumpy ride.”

“I think _not_ ,” said Kay indignantly. “Canines are a hotbed of infectious bacteria — look at the size of this one.”

“His name’s _Chewbacca_ ,” Han retorted.

"I don't care if his name's George or Albert, I'm not going anywhere near the bloody thing."

Cassian brushed past Jyn to claim the seat next to Han, reaching for the headset and controls like he’d done it before. “It’ll be fine,” he said, but whether it was directed at her or Kay, or just in general, she wasn’t sure.

Han snorted. “Easy for you to say,” he muttered. “You guys know what you’re fighting for. Here I am, a smuggler minding his own business, suddenly roped into dying for a mission I’m not even trusted enough to hear about —”

In the face of another Solo-length complaint, Jyn did something that produced a result Cassian agreed was a good thing, but had been procured via means that he didn’t like in the least. She bent and kissed Han on the cheek, and proceeded to give him a shake. “You’ll get paid for it, all right?”

“Hey, even if I’m getting paid, you’ll need to give me a better kiss than that,” Han said, and Jyn cuffed him lightly around the back of the head. “What? I’m risking my life here.”

“Oh _lord_ ,” Kay said, taking Jyn by the arm to march her away from the cockpit. “Heaven help us all if the two of you decide to form an ungodly alliance.”

Cassian shot his friend a look at that, but Kay had already put Jyn into a seat back in the cargo hold and was in the process of strapping her in. In the meantime, Han had a smirk on his face as he steered the plane back around. “Told you she liked me,” he said.

Cassian felt a brief — suppressed — urge to loop the wires on his headset around Han’s throat and yank until he turned a pleasant shade of blue, but settled instead for tying a rough bandage around the cut in his arm, pulling the knot taut with his teeth.

Along with an offhand comment.

“She’ll kill you, you know,” he said.

Han shrugged, not deterred in the least. “Hey, keeps things interesting.”

* * *

Kay put his elbow firmly in the dog’s side and pushed, but Chewie didn’t seem to be susceptible to movement where he didn’t want to go, and he sat resolutely at Jyn’s side, his tail wagging.

“This abominable thing,” Kay muttered. He was in the process of bandaging up his shoulder, a temporary binding until the flight path was steady enough for suturing, and the pain seemed to be making him twice as irritable. Which was a fair amount of _irritable_.

“Dogs should be the height of their owner’s knee, and no more,” he continued. “Anything larger, and one might as well slap a collar onto a neighborhood brown bear and call it _Fido_.”

Jyn scratched behind Chewie’s ears the way she’d seen Cassian do it, and he stuck out a pink, happy tongue in response. He had a distinctly wolfish look about him, around the muzzle and the big, upright ears, the kind of dog that would look at home racing through thick snow and snarling at people he didn’t like. “He’s sweet,” she said. “I’ve always liked dogs.”

“ _Joy_ ,” came the sarcastic answer. “You do realize that he probably only likes you because you’re covered in blood, yes?”

Jyn put her forehead to Chewie’s damp nose. “What’s a brave dog like you doing all the way over here?” she asked, and he snuffled enthusiastically at her cheek in response, dragging a rough padded tongue across her chin.

“ _Chewie_ ,” Han said from the cockpit, “quit slobbering all over Jyn. Go sit on Queen Victoria — we’re about to hit some rough flying.”

“Absolutely _not_ ,” Kay muttered, and Jyn pulled Chewie into the gap between her seat and Kay’s, putting her arms around his furry mass. It wasn’t exactly strapping a dog in with safety harnesses, but it came close enough.

She almost didn’t notice the person sitting on her other side. One of Saul’s, but his name didn’t come to her, even though she tried to remember it. He had a solid, honest face that was caked in soot, like he’d been close to the raging fires and the mine blasts on the ground, and rough bandages tied around sites of recent injury. “You’re —” she began.

“Melshi,” he said, as though he could tell she’d been struggling with his name. His French was oddly accented, colloquial but simultaneously not local, picked up from living with the faction despite not being native to the country. “I’ve never seen anyone fight like you do.”

Jyn didn’t know whether to take it as a compliment, or a comment on her fighting style in comparison to the Guerra faction’s. But she did know that of his group of six, only two had escaped. “I’m sorry about your friends,” she said, and meant it.

He shook his head. “We knew what we were choosing to do,” he answered. “It could have been any one of us. And you’re — we’ve heard stories. You and Guerra…”

Jyn waited, even though the thought of Saul and the faction’s uncertain fate made it hard to keep still. She wanted to be fighting, feeling armor and bone crunch beneath her fists, shots fired to blast through their enemies, to _do_ something. Something more than this not knowing.

“I wasn’t there when you were, but if you fought the way you did today — leaving you behind was a mistake,” Melshi said. “Whatever they say about your father. Whoever he is.”

Jyn knew that Kay and the others were listening too, engine noise and flight disturbances notwithstanding. “It’s true,” she said, and decided it was as far as she wanted to go into the subject of her father. “But thank you.”

Chirrut seemed to be smiling at her. “How was my aim?” he called. “Passable, I hope.”

“ _Lucky_ ,” Jyn answered. “I’m not even going to ask how.”

Baze tugged irritably on the safety straps like they were in the way of him getting a nap. “Good,” he said. “It’s incomprehensible, even to me.”

Jyn’s smile faded when she heard the thundering of something close, and getting closer still.

“Get ready,” Han called. “Here we go.”

Chewie made a long, low keening noise, and Jyn buried her face in his fur, holding on tight when the gunfire started. There was something reassuring about feeling the solid heartbeat of a living thing against her cheek, and Jyn closed her eyes, as every swoop and lurch of the plane made her throat tighten. Everyone was silent, listening to the _rat-tat-tat_ of machine gunfire, the creak and groan of the metal around them straining and hurtling through the impossible acrobatics of evasive fire.

They were firing back too. Cassian was behind the guns, and Jyn knew his aim, seen the bodies left by sniper fire. The crystal was pressed between her throat and Chewie’s heaving side, and Jyn found herself praying — to what or who, she wasn’t sure.

_One last fight. Please._

_Please_.

* * *

“This was a bad idea,” Han said, while the plane dipped and swung to avoid the volley of gunfire. “I’m just saying it so that it’s on the record.”

“Noted.” Cassian twisted the controller and fired back with the aircraft guns mounted onto the wings, rounds that gleamed like incendiary bolts in the dense darkness. “Third quadrant — watch it.”

“Gotcha.” The plane went into a brief dive as more hostile fire soared past them and into the clouds. “Looks like we have their attention. You ready?”

Cassian shut out the noises from the back, the rattling, the sound of a dog whining in fear, Chirrut’s low-voiced prayers, and nodded. “Whatever it takes.”

Han nodded, his hand on the throttle lever, and began to pull them upward, cutting through the fog. “Okay, they’re on our tail in formation. Shot lining up in three — two — _one_.”

Cassian fired, and the black wing of the second German plane erupted into flames. Han whooped. “Nice shot, Capt,” he said. “Alright, let’s get the last one, before it —”

A shell whistled past the cockpit window, and Han broke off to steer them into a dive. Cassian could feel the controls straining beneath his hands, but they were getting closer now —

The shell exploded from a spray of gunfire before it could make landing, and Han guided them into another ascent, just skimming the tops of the trees in the forest. Cutting a little too close, and Cassian threw him a look when the whole plane bounced from the impact.

“It worked, didn’t it?” Han said. “Focus, one more hostile.”

Cassian pointed. “Up ahead — he’s trying to get below you.”

German planes were equipped with guns on the roof, allowing them to sneak below Allied aircraft and fire straight up, utilizing a lack of visibility to give them leeway to shoot.

Han snorted, undaunted. “Is he, now?” he said, and the plane dipped sharply to the left, causing another loud whine from Chewie. “Big mistake, buddy.”

Cassian felt everything tip sideways as the plane went into a roll, wings slicing through the clouds and fog with a vengeance, but he forced his attention to stay on the signal detector. All he needed was a second to shoot.

The shape appeared within their sights, and Cassian pulled the trigger. The high-velocity maneuver had forced them behind the enemy plane, and the cannon fire now took out the back engine with an explosive blast, forcing it to hurtle back towards the earth with a trail of fire streaking behind like a comet.

Han hauled at the controls and everything righted itself with a slam, and Cassian turned back to see everyone clinging to their seats, with the exception of Jyn, who’d been holding onto Han’s terrified dog. He exhaled in relief, pushing the headset down to his neck.

“ _Now_ can we go?” Han said.

Cassian clapped him on the shoulder. “Full speed ahead.”

“Roger that, and hey —”

Cassian turned. Han jerked his chin at him. “Nice work.”

He wished it was harder to like Han. Getting along with him was mostly a struggle, but liking him in spite of his less savory manners and constant opportunism was even harder to explain.

Especially so in the context of how he was with Jyn.

Cassian made his way back to the cargo hold, and Kay nodded, visibly in relief. Jyn looked up too, and they all took each other in, silenced by the gravity of the night’s events.

“Oh, and that’s another one you owe me, Capt,” Han said, interrupting the silence with his characteristic instinct for timing. “You guys should start a tab, because I’m collecting on it — and I mean _soon_.”

Jyn clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh at Kay’s beady-eyed exasperation, because he was clearly contemplating whether they’d make the flight back to London without Han, and Cassian smiled, his hand in Chewie’s fur.

Their fingers brushed, and Jyn smiled back, lingering for just a second more than Cassian expected.

“So what happens now?” she asked.

There were a range of answers that came to mind. Emergency treatment for the injuries they’d all sustained, finding out what the Germans had used to eliminate a town and its inhabitants, whether it was true, and whether it was a figment of wartime hysteria, liaising with the faction — hopefully intact — and receiving their next assignment.

Not all of them were good, especially if the suspicion at the back of Cassian’s mind gained traction, but that was for later. He was content for now to pretend like there was only good to look forward to, so he looked out the window, at the passing night sky, then back at Jyn. “I have no idea,” he said, and she smiled.

* * *

Someone was cursing, loudly and with plenty of feeling. Jyn would have found it hard to suppress a smirk, if she hadn’t also been thinking along more or less the same lines. The only saving grace was that Kay had delegated himself the duty to look after the more serious wounds (being the more accomplished at emergency first aid), and with Cassian up in the cockpit with Han, it left Jyn to look after herself.

“Oh come now,” Kay said, while Baze sat on one of the men’s legs (the one who wasn’t Melshi) to hold him still. The man had been shot in the shoulder, and Kay clearly wasn’t of the mind to delay treatment. “You’ve survived far worse. Bite the bullet — so to speak — and let’s get you patched up, shall we?”

The only response was a string of curses that made Kay tut and Baze grunt, but most likely because he didn’t think much of the range of profanities on offer.

Jyn drizzled water from a canteen onto Chirrut’s exposed forearm. Unlike Cassian, he’d stayed where he was supposed to during the fight, avoiding the more serious close-contact injuries. Still, she’d heard how grenades had taken out some of their snipers, and it was a continuous — oddly understated — miracle that Chirrut had even made it out in one piece.

Then again, she supposed Baze may have had something to do with it.

“It’s not bad,” she said, peeling apart the rip in his charred sleeve to inspect the patch of skin. “Some blistering. Does it hurt?”

Chirrut shook his head. “Pain can be mastered,” he said, as though they both couldn’t hear not-Melshi cursing Kay and Baze and the German High Command in highly impassioned terms from across the way.

Jyn refrained from comment, unsure whether to take the moment as humor or another instance of unintended irony, concentrating her efforts on Chirrut’s arm and ignoring the throbbing in her own leg in the process. The skin on his arm had already blistered, yellow and raised and sure to be painful, but it didn’t look any worse than the ones she’d seen before — certainly not bad enough to lose him a limb, or she was sure Baze would have turned the whole forest into cinders by now.

Despite the stinging he must have felt from the blisters, Chirrut managed to smile. “You’re wondering how a blind man could use a crossbow with a certain degree of accuracy, but still get himself burnt, aren’t you?”

Jyn made a face, searching inside Cassian’s thoroughly pilfered pack for another roll of gauze bandages. “Something along those lines,” she said. “How much can you see, really?”

Chirrut tilted the staff just enough for the polished end to touch Jyn’s forehead. “Enough,” he said, and she knew that she was being teased.

“I’m a little relieved, to be honest,” she said, beginning to wind the bandage around the burn. “At least I know you’re human. I was starting to worry.”

Chirrut chuckled. “Glad that I could be of assistance.”

Jyn tied off the bandage and tucked the ends underneath the fold, careful to keep the binding loose so it didn’t press on the blisters. “That’s all I can do,” she said. “Sorry.”

“All the same. Thank you, Jyn,” Chirrut answered, in his quiet, courteous way.

Jyn hunched forward to push Cassian’s pack underneath her seat, but in doing so, the crystal slipped from her shirt and hung from the cord, gleaming a little in the dimly lit surroundings.

She wasn't religious in the least, much less one for confession, but she had to tell someone, even if it was just to think aloud.

“Chirrut,” she said, straightening up. “You mentioned something about my necklace.”

A soft noise from him, as though to say that he was listening.

“Earlier, I felt something. Something I can’t explain. The crystal, it _pulsed_ , right before the tremors started.” She hesitated. “It sounds mad, but what if —”

“—your necklace is tied somehow to what the Nazis did?” Chirrut said. “Does it sense earthquakes, or the trap they laid for Guerra?”

Jyn shook her head, because she didn’t know, not anything more than the thoughts running in circles through her head, thoughts she couldn’t piece together beyond anything that sounded purely insane. “The crystal was a gift from my father to my mother. She’d always worn it, as long as I could remember. It couldn’t hurt anyone. It’s — it’s just a stone. What could that have to do with the Nazis?”

Chirrut inhaled deeply, his fingers drumming a nearly-silent rhythm on the scarred surface of his staff. “It seems to me like the sole connecting factor between the two — is your father,” he said. “I’ve told you that the crystal is something very strange. If your father is the man I’ve heard about — a very intelligent man — it does seem odd that he’d make a gift of a crystal without an underlying meaning he and your mother understood.”

_We know that the Colonel is part of the Third Reich’s scientific advancement division._

_Experimental Science._

_It stands to reason that his purpose for seeking out your father eight years ago was to recruit him for those schemes._

Saul’s voice, telling her what she needed to know, however hard it was to believe.

“He…” Jyn began, and trailed off. Because she couldn’t imagine the crystal, for all its purity, its light, could be involved somehow in the destruction that her father was helping the Germans inflict. “He couldn’t.”

Chirrut didn’t contradict her. “There are many unknown quantities,” he said, evenly. “What we do know is that the Nazis wanted to capture Saul Guerra, that they were waiting, and they were prepared. It stands to reason that whatever happened to the town and the prison camp…it was intentional, some kind of statement, one that might have been far, far worse if they managed to capture a renowned figure of armed opposition. There remain a great deal of questions we must pose, and answer, if we are to truly discover what happened here tonight.”

“And my father,” Jyn said, softly.

“And your father,” Chirrut said, in agreement.

Jyn hesitated, her gaze straying towards the cockpit again. She could see the back of Cassian’s head, and the faint murmur of whatever he was saying to Han. Galen Erso had been the reason they recruited her in the first place, because of their suspicions over what he was helping the Germans do.

_If_ she drew their attention to the link between her father, the crystal, and the untold destruction none of them could explain — there was no guarantee that the results wouldn’t be hostile.

It was a choice between her private deal with Saul to find Galen, and the semi-unspoken contract — _understanding_ — between herself and Cassian, and Kay as well.

A different Jyn might have chosen without hesitation. A Jyn who’d been abandoned time and time again, given no reason to think that anyone else’s interests might matter except her own.

But she’d changed, in spite of her resolve not to. _They’d_ changed her, and a part of her knew it wasn’t necessarily for the worst.

“Are you going to tell Cassian?” she asked, despite not having the answer at her fingertips.

Chirrut inclined his head, as though she’d posed an interesting question. “Doesn’t the Captain already know?”

* * *

Cassian turned the dials on the radio, listening intently for a response, and proceeded to flick a switch to adjust the bandwidth. Melshi had told him which frequencies the Guerra faction used to transmit and receive, now it was just a matter of finding the right one.

If only Han would stop talking so that he wouldn’t have to concentrate as hard. The man was an excellent pilot, if a little risk-prone (then again, the best aces were), but he seemed incapable of sitting through any kind of silence, even if it was with someone trying to work.

“So I’m on the airfield at Lisbon, and I’ve just finished my deal with some _art_ dealer coming all the way from Dallas — yeah right, buddy — when some pilot with the RAF tears back into the place, going on about how he couldn’t stick the landing for a pickup in the north of France —”

Chewie made a mournful sound, hunching onto his front paws, and Han gave him a quick one-handed pat.

“—and I’m thinking to myself, _that sounds familiar_ , and before I know it, I’m on the radio to London — hey, are you even listening to me? I did a good deed here.”

“Are you receiving financial compensation for your ‘good deed’?” Cassian inquired, still listening to nothing more than static.

“Well yeah, but all the money in the world’s gonna do me squat if I’m stone dead in the middle of a forest somewhere,” Han said, sounding unfazed. “Now, where was I?”

Cassian paused, because he’d caught something. Snatches of a song, but it wasn’t one of theirs. He turned back to the cargo bay, where Jyn was in her seat, engaged in a low-voiced conversation with Chirrut.

“Jyn,” he said, and she looked around immediately. “I think I have something.”

She crossed the space in the span of seconds, and — predictably — stumbled from failing to take into account her injured leg. Cassian braced her until she had a firm hold on the back of his seat, less exasperated than he was meant to be. “Here,” he said, holding out the headset. “It’s on all the faction frequencies.”

Jyn leaned closer to hear it, and their heads were side by side as they listened to the scratchy broadcast of a familiar song. “It’s _La Marseillaise_ ,” she said, her eyes widening. “That’s Saul. He’s — he’s alive.”

Cassian pulled back slightly so their faces didn’t knock straight into one another, but Jyn’s face was still close when it lit up, her smile as luminous as the untold stars scattered across the sky.

Her hand grasped his uninjured arm for a moment, and they shared it — the moment of relief, defiance, and the incandescent knowledge that the mission had gone their way, and there was nothing Germany could do to change that, not then, and very nearly not ever (it was the kind of moment where they could be naive enough to believe it was so).

There may have been something more, but Jyn relinquished her grip on Cassian’s arm, and spared a brief smile for Han before she turned away. “I’ll tell the others,” she said, and Cassian let her go.

There was an uncharacteristic silence after she’d gone, and Cassian only belatedly realized it was because Han wasn’t — for _once_ — filling the emptiness with talk.

Because he was eyeing Cassian with something like smugness, and more than a little disbelief. “Son of a bitch,” he said, enunciating the words with visible relish. “Since when?”

Cassian replaced the headset over his ears, despite knowing all too well that they did very little in the way of shutting out Han’s incessant speech habits. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Solo,” he said, injecting as much professional distance as he could into the sentence.

Han turned back to the controls, shaking his head. “All right, _Andor_ ,” he said, smirking. “I guess all’s fair in love and war, eh?”

There was nothing Han Solo enjoyed more than a challenge, and Cassian had a sinking feeling that he’d just accidentally given him one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was Han Solo. And Chewie. Sorry, I know at least one person was expecting Bodhi :/ (We're getting there, story-wise, I promise)  
> I also give you man-bickering between Han and Cassian, that's always fun to write.


	17. Victory Lap

The plane rolled to a stop shortly after dawn. “There she goes,” Han said, as the engine died down. “Nice and easy.”

Chewie gave a short bark in response, as if in agreement. Cassian felt like he could have slept for weeks, despite knowing that he had an urgent debriefing with General Draven. His mind never went quietly in the face of a problem, and it had been churning for hours, ever since they’d taken off into the night.

Not about what Han had said (coincidentally just one of the many strings of close-to-nonsense), but the possible connection between Galen Erso and the never-before-seen damage that had unfolded before their eyes.

“This is the part where you say _you’re welcome_ ,” Han added. “And pay me.”

Cassian didn’t look up, because he was occupied with sending a message to HQ reporting the team’s safe arrival. “This is Captain Cassian Andor, confirming the arrival of Rogue Team on the smuggler plane,” he said. “Requesting clearance for the two evacs from the Guerra side and emergency medical attention, primary and secondary injuries.”

While waiting for the response, he took his finger off the switch to close his end of the channel. “Not my job, Han. You’ll have to report to billing.”

Han rolled his eyes and reached for a cigarette. “Every damn time.”

Instead of lighting it, something he saw in the cargo bay made him reconsider. Cassian was about to warn him about the proximity of his chin to the open lighter, but Han turned back with a grin that he didn't like in the least. "I think I just thought of a way to incentivize a new, shiny streamlined system of payment."

" _What?_ "

Han returned the cigarette to his shirt pocket and sauntered out of his seat, his dog in hot pursuit.

“ _Finally_.” Kay appeared in Cassian's line of sight, looking like he'd been waiting for Han (or Chewie) to leave. “Given our luck, I thought lightning was about to strike us out of the sky.”

Cassian thought they’d been unspeakably lucky so far, but he was having some difficulty vocalizing the positive sentiment, watching what Han was doing in the cargo hold while they waited for the command station’s response.

_Incentivize a streamlined system of payment.  
_

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Not only was that a question he couldn’t ask Kay (not unless he wanted to risk a concussion), he also had a feeling he was watching Han’s bright idea play out in front of him. Jyn was still in her seat, petting Chewie with Han crouched at her feet. But unlike a regular conversation, Han had a hand on her knee and his face tilted up to hers while they talked — about what, he wasn’t sure, just that she looked more energized than anyone as physically exhausted as her was meant to look.

Aside from it being Han's obvious attempt to show Cassian why it was in everyone's best interests to pay him as soon as humanly possible, so as to get him out of their collective hair, he knew perfectly well that Han had no qualms against mixing business with pleasure. Of course it’d be Jyn. Jyn and Han. They already had inside jokes, references, and now their established camaraderie was making Jyn smile while Cassian stood at a distance, stilted and awkward in contrast to their easy familiarity.

Han Solo didn’t have orders, or a rank that superseded her probationary agent status. He didn’t have superiors waiting for him to report, or a rule-following friend who had concerns for his wellbeing. He was free to go as he wanted, across seas and oceans, faraway countries with exotic names, living through stories and getting into trouble with only his neck to worry about, not the state of a nation and the precarious balance of a war.

Jyn had the spirit of a bird that wanted very badly to be free, wherever she was, and Cassian knew it.

The thought just made him realize how incredibly drained he was, and he turned back to the radio, aware that Kay had probably seen all of it.

“Might be for the best, you know,” he said, not without sympathy. “You can’t afford to lose focus now.”

Cassian glanced at him. It wasn’t in Kay’s nature to be vindictive about a point proved right, but he hadn't expected anything softer than mild disapproval. “You’re right. I just —”

“I understand,” Kay said. “All of us have the freedom to…to dream, I suppose.”

Cassian didn’t answer, and Kay cleared his throat, delicately.

“Would you like me to poison him?” he asked. “Not lethally, I assure you. Where would I even get my hands on some rat poison, with all these shortages? Just something to put him out of commission until we move onto our next assignment — like cascara — awfully good laxative, you know. Then you won’t have to worry about Miss Erso —”

“—no,” Cassian said, hastily, then decided to repeat himself for emphasis. “ _No_. Don’t poison Han.”

Kay raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t just be doing it for you,” he muttered. “The man’s an awfully good target.”

It was such a quintessentially _Kay_ thing to say that Cassian felt slightly better, not at the substance of the words, but from knowing that his friend remained on his side.

Although at that precise moment, Cassian didn’t disagree.

* * *

Jyn peered out the lowered bay doors, at the damp and misty airfield somewhere north of London. A fine rain was falling from a cover of stone-gray clouds, slicking the similarly-colored concrete and the fleet of planes — fighters, bombers and transport alike — lined up in neat rows as far as the eye could see.

The breeze felt fantastically cool on her cheeks, stirring her hair, a much-needed contrast after the relentless fires of the forest battlefield.

“You ever been?” Han asked, clearly interpreting her expression as wistful curiosity about the city.

Jyn straightened her recently-sutured leg (product of her own efforts, soon to be memorialized by another scar), so that the tip of her boot was _just_ nudging Han’s leg. “You could say that,” she said.

Han’s lighter clicked, and he inhaled off another cigarette before blowing smoke slowly from his lips (and they weren’t bad lips at all). “Not much for straight answers, huh?”

Jyn shrugged, like she didn’t have the faintest idea what he meant. Han liked to say things as if they were established understandings between friends, and he was just picking up old habits to highlight, all for the fun of it.

If he weren’t such a dyed-in-the-wool _ass_ to most people he encountered, she supposed he’d have a legion of friends.

“So I’m curious,” Han began, while Jyn pretended to be mostly interested in the landscape of the military airfield. “What’s your type? A guy in uniform — real upright and proper — the kind of guy who has to look at a rulebook before he’ll make a move —”

Jyn glanced at him, wondering what he was trying to get at with the not-so-hypothetical comparison, which was beginning to sound an awful lot like Kay.

“—or the wild and dangerous type?” he said, with a fantastic grasp of subtlety. “Y’know, scruffy but good-looking, drifting around the world in a plane he practically built with his own two hands, doesn’t take orders from no one, and always has an interesting story to tell…that kind?”

 _Neither. Both._ Someone walking the line between rules and unruliness. Someone with a set of values he’d follow, but not beyond all reason. Interesting, the kind of interesting that stirred curiosity.

Someone Jyn could have without consequences.

The question felt old, and so did the answer, and Jyn stretched her legs again.

“Maybe I don’t want anyone,” she said, turning her face to the cool air. “Have you considered that?”

“Everybody wants someone,” Han answered, matter-of-factly. “It’s just a matter of being big enough to admit it to yourself.”

“A problem you don’t seem to have in the least,” she remarked, and he grinned. “You’re the type who wants _everybody_.”

“Hey, I talk a good game, but I listen too,” he said, bumping her knee with something like affection. “Get a drink with me.”

Jyn raised her eyebrows. “Shouldn’t you be planning your next stop?” she said. “I imagine there’s some contraband to be smuggled somewhere out in the world.”

“Maybe I have some business to take care of around these parts,” he said casually. “Nothing sells itself, you know.”

Jyn made a non-committal noise under her breath. “You should probably invite a nice girl instead,” she suggested. “Someone who’ll turn up in a nice dress and high heels. And lipstick.”

Han clapped a hand to his chest like he’d been wounded. “Who says that’s the kind of girl I’m interested in?”

Jyn rubbed Chewie behind the ears, smiling at the vaguely doleful look in his brown eyes. “Maybe not,” she said. “But it keeps things simple.”

“Simple’s overrated, sweetheart,” he answered. “Some of us like a bit of trouble.”

Jyn laughed with closed lips. “You’re very persistent, aren’t you?”

“Helps to learn that about me,” he agreed. “Anyway, there’s a great pub in the West End. _The Black Prince_ — terrible name, but trust me, they’ve got one hell of a beer. Won’t find any uniforms there, but lots of secret agent types turn up, so if you get bored, you can ask them to shoot me.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Sounding better and better.”

“So?” Han asked. “That a _yes_?”

Jyn considered it. “It’s a _maybe_.”

“Great. _Maybe_ starts at six. See you there.”

Jyn shook her head at his half-optimistic, half-cynical persistence, and gestured for him to help her off the seat. “Duty calls,” she said, using her chin to point at the uniformed sergeant-or-somethings making their way towards them, armed with clipboards and stretchers.

But before Han could replicate his effort to help her from the seat, Kay had interposed himself between the two, putting Jyn’s arm over his shoulders with business-like and near-clinical efficiency.

“Uh, she asked me to help, buddy,” Han pointed out.

“Nonsense,” Kay said. “A pilot must stay with his aircraft at all times, rain or shine.”

“What? This isn’t the _navy_.”

Kay hiccoughed, like he hadn’t heard. “I will escort Miss Erso and the rest to the barracks. I’m afraid we all need a bit of cleaning up before the debrief — especially you, young lady.”

The last part was directed at Jyn, who didn’t necessarily dispute the fact, what with her clothes being mostly covered in burn marks and blood from various sources, but thought it was an unnecessarily petty thing to point out. “What are you doing?” she said, pointedly.

Kay put on a completely innocent expression, which was plenty suspicious in of itself. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean. Now off we go, pip-pip.”

Jyn looked over her shoulder to find Cassian, who didn’t seem any more aware than she was of the reason why Kay was behaving so strangely. Maybe if Cassian had been about to help her, but what did Kay care if Han did? Especially since she guessed that if she’d decided to run off with the American smuggler, Kay might break open the champagne and tell a joke for real.

But Kay had already started marching her down the steps, giving very little leeway for her to protest. “Honestly, the things I do in the name of _bloody_ friendship,” he muttered.

* * *

Not for the first time in her life, Jyn was wearing someone else’s clothes. In this case, clothes that looked like they might have belonged (past or present tense) to an engineer around the airfield.

Everything was a size too big for her, but most clothes were either too long or too broad in light of her small frame, so she made do. The satisfying strength of the showers in the station meant that the dirt and blood had all washed off in a swirl of blackened red that disappeared down the drain, leaving her cleaner than she’d felt for a long time. She’d even lost the dirt under her nails and forest debris from her hair, been given a shot of something that stopped her leg from quivering (though not aching), and now she stood in a corridor with Baze and Chirrut, waiting to be called in for the debriefing.

No one — she was strangely pleased to see — had tried to force them into uniform. Cassian and Kay were off somewhere in the building, whisked off as soon as they’d made it into headquarters, which was a stone building in the middle of Baker Street, squat in the heart of London. Jyn leaned on the window frame, watching blurred figures trot up and down the street through the fogged glass, utterly oblivious as to the scheming and war efforts happening beneath the serene surface of an otherwise unremarkable office building.

Baze cast a dark look at the portraits hanging up on the wood-paneled walls. She imagined he didn’t like the way it looked, more old, stately manor than headquarters for espionage and resistance, and she wondered if he was about to deface the monocled gentleman framed in gilt and ebony with his knife.

“They’re unsure as to how to deal with the information we’ve brought them,” Chirrut said. He was sitting in one of the padded chairs, his back gracefully straight, his staff the subject of some strange looks from the guards they’d passed, but otherwise unremarked upon once they saw his eyes.

“The important thing is whether they trust it,” Baze answered. “These types always debate and argue until the information becomes valueless.”

“If you hate people like them so much, why’d you join?” Jyn asked, curious, not malicious.

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” Baze said. “Otherwise Chirrut and I would be no better than Saul Guerra. Fanatics.”

It was an unexpectedly levelheaded answer, and Jyn once again found herself wondering about the two American agents who’d risked everything on the strength of some unorthodox convictions.

Baze sighed heavily, and leaned against the wall with his arms folded — careless of his head touching another priceless-looking oil painting. “I’ll fight,” he said. “Just leave someone else to do the negotiating.”

Chirrut tapped the end of his staff against the floor. “I believe that our audience approaches,” he said.

Jyn put his hand on her arm and helped him stand as the General approached them, Kay and Cassian on either side. Their faces were unreadable, especially Cassian’s, and Draven didn’t say a word to them before he threw open a pair of doors and swept past them into the hall.

Jyn felt Cassian’s hand on her arm before they went in. “Let me do the talking,” he murmured.

She shot him a look bright with defiance, but didn’t dispute the logic behind it. If Cassian spoke to the room full of parliamentarians and lords and military men, they’d probably get the results they wanted — which was an efficient dismissal so that she could fall face-flat into a bed and sleep until everything stopped aching. If Jyn did it, she’d most likely end up in a cell somewhere for insubordination, with Kay setting off celebratory crackers in the next room.

The room was darkened, heavy velvet curtains drawn over the windows, and it was only by the amber lights dotting the U-shaped benches did Jyn manage to see who they faced.

Unfortunately, none of them looked familiar in the least.

There was a red-haired woman who drew her eye, not just because she was a spot of flame-like color in the drab room, but because she was the only woman in the company of men who looked like they were used to running the world.

Jyn’s gaze lingered on the nameless woman, her pale face outlined only in profile because she was in a low-voiced conversation with a man at her side (bearded, stately, and somewhat younger than his peers).

“My Lords, My Lady, gentlemen,” said Draven. “I’m sure you’ve read the report from Rogue Team’s mission, Operation Ally, and you must have questions. I myself have several. However, I think it might be prudent for Captain Cassian Andor to summarize the events of the mission in brief, before you pose your questions. Are we in agreement?”

There was a murmur of assent. The woman with flame-colored hair was looking at them now, and in contrast to her almost brazen coloring against their subdued surroundings, she had a face that was gracefully shaped to be aristocratic and commanding, a face that looked like it could weather all storms and emerge a veneer of inscrutable composure. While Cassian made his report, her eyes — a pale, crystalline blue that seemingly took on the color of whatever she was near — moved slowly across the group.

Cassian was still speaking, relating the events of the past few days with occasional assistance from Kay (still poised despite his arm being in a sling), but she heard it as though it was music in another room. She knew the story, she didn’t know the people who were listening to it — what gave _them_ the right to decide whether life was rightly saved, or better off left to its fate, what gave them the authority to rule like supreme judges from their shadowy room, the strategy to end the war.

When the woman’s studying gaze reached Jyn, she didn’t look away. Rather, she lifted her chin and stared defiantly back, until the faintest hint of a smile curled the corner of the woman’s — the _Lady’s_ — mouth, and she gave a small, nearly imperceptible nod.

 _We’re the women in the world of men_ , she seemed to be saying. _I see you, and I bid you welcome_.

It was such an aristocratic thing to say that Jyn felt her hackles rise, her resentment of blind authority just raring for a reason to be set loose.

“Jyn Erso,” Draven said, breaking through the shell of her thoughts. “Step forward.”

She did, and a sidelong glance at Cassian and Kay reminded her to keep her hands folded behind her back. Also to refrain from mouthing off, something she was hard-pressed to do.

“Is that true?” Draven asked, as if she was meant to know what he was talking about. “Is Guerra sincere with his intentions?”

 _Oh_.

“I think so,” she answered. “He’s a man passionate over what he believes in. He just needed the right cause.”

“Hopefully you told him it was ours,” said one of the men, a thick gray mustache that made her want to seize it and yank.

A foot pressed against the back of her shoe, unseen in the shadows dominating most of the room, and Jyn guessed from the faintly spicy scent that it was Cassian reminding her not to lose her temper.

“He’s joined,” she said, cutting through the low ripple of amusement. “Otherwise, you’re free to send me back so I can try again.”

Cassian was definitely stepping on her heel now, and she resisted the urge to kick him back. Too obvious, and she couldn’t trust the strength of her injured leg. Draven didn’t seem amused at the undertone of sarcasm, but he nodded. “Guerra re-established communications with F-section, and relayed the message that he’s begun to liaise with De Gaulle from their new location. Good work — all of you — for facilitating their escape. Our reconnaissance pilots reported that the mountain was mostly collapsed by the time dawn broke.”

“And the people?” Chirrut asked, causing an awkward pause as they all seemed to realize that a blind American man who dressed like a monk was speaking to them as though they were peers. “What of the town and the prison camp?”

The woman and General Draven glanced at each other, and she spoke at last. “Gone,” she said. Her voice was even, and faintly melodic. “The pilots couldn’t see what was left of the town in its entirety. Based off the levels of decimation, the prison camp seemed to have been the origin of the destructive event. They couldn’t find even a trace of the foundations where the buildings stood — no bodies, as far as they could tell. It was as if…it had all vanished.”

Chirrut was silent, but Jyn saw him cross himself. Baze’s head was bowed, and even Kay looked affected by the news. Cassian’s face was blank, clean of anything that might resemble emotion, the same way he’d looked at the destruction he’d seen in Nantes. A protective instinct.

Jyn only felt anger.

“You were lucky to have left Châteaubriant when you did,” said Draven, his brusque demeanor unchanged. “Now we have eyewitness accounts at least — I don’t think the Nazis planned for that. Their intention was to wipe out anyone and anything in the vicinity, and we didn’t just manage to whisk an enemy faction out from under their noses, now we’re onto them.”

“So you believe us?” Jyn said.

The General shot a look at the unnamed lady, but her attention was on Jyn. “You act to bring us intelligence,” she said. “Harrowing intelligence, but it would be a mistake to treat that which we do not wish to believe as lies. What happened last night was a much-needed warning, and we in this room believe that we ought to focus our resources on discovering the specifics…whatever the Germans used to inflict this damage.”

“My father might be able to tell us,” she said, and instantly felt the stares of every person in the room, honed in on her face. “He’s a scientist for them — the Germans. The best in his field. He might be able to tell us — if we found him, and brought him back here to testify.”

The woman nodded, after a pause. “Indeed,” she said. “We will bear that in mind when we strategize our next steps. Your father is Dr Galen Erso, the Danish physicist?”

Jyn didn’t doubt that she already knew, but she nodded. “Yes.”

“Ties to a feared resistance general and a Nazi scientist,” Draven said, almost drawling the words, daring her to defiance. “No one can accuse the Special Operations Executive of being anything less than _colorful_.”

“Perhaps Agent Erso is an example of why we ought to continue to broaden our recruitment,” the Lady suggested. “We’ve discussed the matter with your commanding officer, and we’ve decided that the bravery and initiative you exhibited in Operation Ally warrants a promotion to the rank of Ensign.”

 _Ensign_.

Jyn imagined they were expecting her to show gratitude at the unexpected and _not-remotely-asked-for_ elevation in rank from _low_ to _slightly less low_ , so she inclined her head. “Thank you,” she said.

Draven nodded, and turned to the rest of the room. “That concludes the debrief of Operation Ally. Unless there’s anything else the Captain and Major would like to add, further questions may be directed to me, and they’ll move on to their next assignment — to be issued in due course.”

There was a shuffle as the members began to leave their seats, filing out of the room while only the General and the red-haired woman stayed in their chairs. Draven saw that they hadn’t moved, and motioned with his hand in the direction of Jyn, Chirrut and Baze. “I’d like a word with Captain Andor and Major Kay,” he said. “You can wait outside. It won’t take long — just some formalities.”

Jyn wasn’t fooled. It meant intelligence too high-clearance for their ears, and she didn’t like it at all. But Draven’s tone didn’t leave room for refusal, so she helped lead Chirrut from the room, with Baze bringing up the rear.

On her way out, she passed the red-haired Lady in grayish white, and she murmured, “Well done, Ensign Erso.”

Jyn was through the doors now, and she turned at the words, looking over her shoulder. Their gazes locked, pale blue into hazel, and she was smiling at Jyn — like they shared a secret — before the doors swung shut to ringing silence.

* * *

Something had happened. Bodhi could sense it, the way animals scented trouble and waited in the shadows, tiny hearts racing, until they found out what it was. He’d seen enough to know that war could make some people animals and others beasts, and he was an animal, cowering, trying not to be seen, always — always — ready to flee, to _run_.

He was just never fast enough, try as he might. Never fast enough to outrun them.

So he hid, hoping they wouldn’t notice him. Some kind of message had made its way onto the base, and he knew because he remembered when it had all changed, when things had suddenly become different. His plane had been grounded for some reason, and so had the others — after the three big bombers had taken off — and they’d waited, waited, waited. As though there would be little point to whatever cargo Bodhi was transporting unless they received the elusive message.

When it had — everything changed. Orders became harsher, commanding officers more dogged, as though they had a purpose now, a purpose that had been vindicated beyond their wildest imaginings.

Bodhi heard rumors, scraps, smaller than the pieces of food that made their way onto his plate, but he’d pieced it together, more or less. Something had happened when the bombers were sent to France, some kind of _blast_ (a violent, hateful word) and it had destroyed something important. More than that, the word he’d heard was _eradicated_. Bodhi had trouble believing the first part, and he couldn't believe the second.

That it was something the ESD had _made_.

Bombs destroyed things, left craters in concrete, missing pieces in buildings. They killed people, broke families, trod on hope and brought fear, but Bodhi had never heard of a bomb that could wipe something off the face of the earth, and worse.

Galen Erso had something to do with it, the man with kind eyes, who’d _been_ kind to him, unfailingly so, and that was the part that Bodhi found the hardest to bear.

He hadn’t seen Galen since the news, and he didn’t have any way — any _one_ — to ask, so he’d waited. Watched, and waited, biding his time.

It had been thirteen hours, and Bodhi was waiting on his plane for the cargo to be picked up, but it was taking longer than usual. There was a big plane — a transport — in the way, diverting manpower and attention. The man in the white uniform, Colonel _Krennic_ , had been at the base, a presence of incandescent triumph over the news.

Bodhi watched as the flash of white appeared from the doors that led into the research area, flanked by groups of obedient guards and scientists, but the one at his side was a man in a gray uniform, a silent presence with a striking, measuring gaze.

_Galen._

He thought it might have been the poor light, but Galen seemed to have aged years in the space of hours, ever since the news had reached base of the mysterious weapon. He seemed almost sightless now, following the Colonel up to the plane and listening to his instructions, nodding, withdrawn.

Everyone saluted, and Bodhi averted his eyes as the engines burned bright and the plane shot off into the sky.

Boots stamped on the ramp up to the cargo hold, and Bodhi turned in a sudden panic, saluting too. The soldiers ignored him, and grasped the handles on the crates with practiced disdain, moving one of the four down and walking until they were out of sight.

Bodhi waited until they were gone, and crouched by one of the crates. Seeing Galen — changed and haggard — had made him unspeakably curious, and he wanted to see. Those crates had something to do with the weapon, and why they’d temporarily suspended his shipments until the news came back of its successful use, and Bodhi wanted to know.

If he was a part of it, the unbelievable mindless devastation, he wanted to know what he was doing, even if it was going to destroy him.

He’d been about to shift the lid on the second crate when something caught his eye, wedged in the seam between floor and wall. At first, he dismissed it as a piece of metal, sharp and useless, but it glimmered. A glimmer he remembered from the first time he’d taken a shipment to the ESD, and the loose crate had dislodged something shiny that vanished into the abyss before he could see.

_What on earth?_

His fingers almost caught in the tight space, and Bodhi couldn’t feel them by the time all his twisting and prying managed to get the thing — the smooth, edgeless thing — loose.

As the blood rushed back into his fingers, he held what he’d found in his palm, not understanding.

This wasn’t coal.

It was a crystal, clear and cloudy all at once, almost white — and it was beautiful.

A shadow fell across the floor, and Bodhi looked up in a sudden panic, before recognizing who it was. He almost hadn’t, because of how different Galen looked now.

_Yes sir? What can I do to help?_

_I wasn’t doing anything, I promise — it just — it just fell out._

_I’ll put it back, I wasn’t stealing, I promise._

But all the protests died before he could voice them, because Galen looked like he was about to collapse. Bodhi moved to catch his arm, supporting him before he could fall. Galen was light — lighter than he’d expected — and he guided the man to sit on one of the benches, the crystal digging slightly into his closed palm.

It was like Galen had taken a mortal blow, seeing the crystal, and Bodhi knew — now more than ever — that it was part of the weapon.

It was also a question that would get him killed, shot through the head and tossed into the darkness without a second thought, but Bodhi had to ask, because Galen looked like the secret was about to kill _him_.

“What’s happening?” he asked, and Galen started like he’d only just heard his voice, and turned.

At first, something made him hesitate, like it was impossible to say, and the ever-present fear in Bodhi’s heart reared, clawing at him with talons that warned him of all the dangers of failing to keep his head down.

Maybe Bodhi should have listened. But all he could think of was how Galen Erso hadn’t kept his head down, not when it came to helping an insignificant pilot — a nobody — struggling with a weight he couldn’t bear.

 _This_ was something he had to do, for Galen.

“It’s all right,” Bodhi said, in a voice so strong and sure that it surprised even him. “You can tell me. What’s happening?”

“Something bad,” Galen answered, like it was to soften the blow of bad news to a child. “I’m afraid it’s something very, very bad indeed.”

* * *

The room seemed darker than before, the lamps more fiery but somehow less bright, and Cassian found that he had a faint pain at the back of his skull. Jyn suspected something, and with good reason, being excluded from a briefing in the wake of new intelligence regarding an earth-shattering weapon. Cassian already knew what passed behind the tall, closed doors would never make it beyond their confines. He knew his orders, implicit as they were, and now that he was back at the heart of it, any freedom he’d felt to test their boundaries was starting to waver, almost as if it had never been.

Draven reclaimed his seat. “Lady Mothma,” he said. “Would you like to begin?”

 _Mothma_. The name jarred Cassian’s memory, supplementing what he knew of the familiar face. Cabinet minister, and a Baroness in her own right. Some country estate, some rich family that hadn’t always been in England, but somehow earned the trust of the previous sovereign, and now — in wartime — here she was, a part of Churchill’s secret pride and joy, evidently in a seat of authority.

“Thank you, General,” she said. She had a pleasant voice, the kind that balanced reason against emotion, but never left one without the other. A politician’s voice, capable of affecting speeches while avoiding the descent into hysteria.

A woman to be reckoned with.

“Firstly, I must thank you for your service to England in Operation Ally — your team’s work was nothing short of invaluable, in accomplishing an impossible objective.”

Cassian and Kay both accepted the courtesy.

“Secondly — and this is the slight dilemma facing us today — is the issue of your next assignment,” she continued. “You report some kind of destructive event most likely caused by the Germans, one that appears to have wiped out an entire settlement of human life without leaving so much as a trace.”

“You said we ought to focus our attention on discovering how they did it,” Cassian said. “So we’ll return to France, conduct reconnaissance on the ground.”

“Not necessarily,” Draven said. “The official explanation broadcasted on German radio channels was that a mining accident occurred in the prison camp, and set off an explosion that caused the destruction. They also claim that they have rapidly resettled the families displaced by the explosion to new locations — though we’re slow to hear exactly where and who they are.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Kay said, while Cassian didn’t speak. “No mining accident could wipe out a _town_. Resettlement would have required German forces deployed to the area, but the reconnaissance pilot reported seeing nothing, because there were no families _left_ to displace. They’re lying.”

“That may be,” Draven said, before Mothma could speak. Her blue eyes flicked to him, cautious, guarded, but she didn’t interrupt. “It seems clear to me that there was some kind of weapon, and the priority now is confirming its precise nature. We don’t know whether it was a bomb, or a blast, or some kind of new invention we haven’t the technology to understand. It may be an isolated incident, or preparation for an attack, but I don’t intend for us to wait to find that out.”

“Once the weapon’s existence is confirmed, and extrinsic causes excluded, from there we’ll be able to answer questions as to how it managed to inflict the damage that it did, and how we can stop it,” Mothma added, the diplomatically worded finesse to Draven’s uncompromising bluntness.

“That’s rather a lot of haystack, General,” Kay remarked. “And one very fine needle.”

“Agreed, so you’re to start somewhere,” Draven said. “Galen Erso. He’s the key to all this.”

Something in Cassian’s chest began to sink. “There’s plenty we don’t know about what happened. The Nazis have any number of scientists working for them. We can’t know for sure.”

In some absurd way, it dawned on Cassian that he was trying to protect Jyn, from command, from the enemy, maybe from herself.

Draven scoffed. “Even the girl knows her father’s likely involved in the affair,” he said. “We need to confirm his involvement, and then we’ll take it from there.”

There was a pause, and Cassian sensed Kay’s sidelong look.

“Understood,” he said, seeing as Cassian wouldn’t speak. “We can begin liaising with Guerra’s faction, and see what they might have to s—”

Draven raised one hand. “If by _we_ , you mean yourself and the Captain, that is correct. I want the both of you to chase down Galen Erso and this weapon, and make a risk assessment of the options going forward.”

“What about agents Imwe, Malbus and Erso?” Kay asked, sounding surprised. “Surely Miss Erso is the way to find her father.”

“The General thinks Saul Guerra will more likely aid the search with greater effectiveness than Jyn Erso, now that he’s joined the same side as all of us,” said Mothma, evenly.

“That was the objective of Operation Ally,” Draven said, folding his arms. “One of them, anyway. I never thought the Erso girl could have found her father by herself, or she’d have done it years ago. The objective was always to foster cooperation with Guerra, get him to put his agents at our disposal in the search for Galen Erso.”

Cassian stared at Draven in silence, because running through his head was everything the General had said — _ordered_ him to do — with regards to Jyn.

_Saul Guerra must be convinced, one way or another._

_Watch her, and report back to me._

_Make her trust you. You've done it before._

That was when Cassian realized that he'd been blinded, caught off-guard. The end result had never been to establish Jyn as a trusted operative. Not to test her, test the results of Cassian and Kay's efforts to train her. She'd been a tool of expediency in Draven's hand, to be used until the moment she broke apart, and discarded, left to rot. The ultimate objective had been access to Saul Guerra and his network of spies and fighters.

Cassian had known the General for years, as a mentor and commanding officer, seen him do ruthless things with even less to say, but in that moment of unguarded surprise, he felt something close to anger. It rose in his throat, but his instincts forced it back down, until it cooled to a dull, hard edge of resentment.

Whether Mothma had seen it or not, he wasn't sure, but she acted quickly to temper the harshness of Draven’s words. “It’s likely that he’ll be more cooperative,” she said, evenly. “And the General prefers if Ensign Erso stays away from the mission objective.”

“Meaning the three will be reassigned,” Draven said. “It’s high time, anyway. There’s arrest warrants circulating Brittany — looking for a young woman traveling in the company of four men, all dangerous insurgents responsible for the destruction and disruption of public order in Nantes. Clearly Erso was a firebrand in the field — Rogue Team as is will attract attention we don’t need. It’s for the benefit of everyone.”

Cassian now felt vaguely sick, from the dull ache at the back of his skull and the throbbing gash in his arm, combined with the sensation that he’d been outmaneuvered, that he was playing in a match with a pre-determined outcome.

Most of all, he was dreading the look on Jyn’s face when he told her that she was about to lose the first tentative group of friends she’d ever had. He wouldn’t tell her that she was being shut out of the search for her father because she was a potential liability, because she’d served her purpose, and Saul Guerra was the better risk, but she’d know. Jyn was many things, and _unintelligent_ wasn’t one of them.

She’d know.

Not just that they were Cassian’s orders from above, she’d know he was _following_ them, just like she’d confronted him for doing in Nantes, and a town that no longer existed.

Cassian understood the objectives, but he’d try to fight — in his own way, within the confines of the rules. He had to. Logic against suspicion, trying not to feel like a drowning man grasping at straws.

“Jyn convinced Guerra on her own,” he reminded them. “He trusts _her_. That’s the only reason he agreed to De Gaulle’s terms. The mission won’t work without Jyn.”

“No,” Draven said, flatly. “I’m afraid it’s a matter of risk assessment, and I’m sure Major Kay can back me there. We can't have her going feral all over again, and we risk that if she becomes any closer to Guerra. There was a rift before, and now it’s been bridged. If we lose Erso to Guerra’s fanaticism, she’ll never be of use to us again. We need to civilize her, contain her — not release her back into the wild. She only gets close to Guerra if it becomes imperative, otherwise I won't have it.”

Mothma gave Cassian a silent look at that, not quite sardonic but close to it. _Civilize her_ , Cassian thought, marveling at Draven’s unfailing ability to misread strengths as liabilities to avoid.

It was shortsighted. What Jyn could do sometimes defied belief, but it would be a mistake to condemn it as needlessly volatile.

“Sir,” Kay protested. “The other two won’t supervise Miss Erso. Not even close.”

“We’ll assign them to demolition and sabotage,” Draven said. “Not much call for supervision there. Judging by your report, she seems fully capable of destruction all on her own. She’s got a taste for it now, and besides — the possibility of finding her father ought to keep her tethered to the cause, for now.”

Cassian opened his mouth to respond, but Draven got to his feet. “My orders are final, gentlemen. Notes have been made on your files, and you’ll all receive commendations. The Erso girl’s been promoted from Cadet rank to Ensign, effective immediately. A reward for a job well done, and in my opinion, completely sufficient. Is that all?”

“I should like to speak to Major Kay and Captain Andor in greater detail about what they’ve learned of the Guerra faction,” Mothma said. “If you wouldn’t mind, General.”

Draven shrugged, like it didn’t matter to him either way — his confidence in his orders being followed was absolute. Kay gave Cassian a significant look as the General exited, leaving them alone with the Lady Mothma.

Cassian could read Kay better than anyone, but on this, he wasn’t sure he could count on his friend’s support. Cassian didn’t want Jyn and the others reassigned, the team broken up and scattered across Europe, and he wanted to fight it. But Kay worked first from the purely logical standpoint, and in that, General Draven hadn’t been wrong at all. As a matter of intuitive deduction, Kay wouldn’t resist the reassignment, and after what happened with the delayed mission, with what he clearly assumed was inappropriate fraternization — Cassian was on his own.

Mothma folded her pale hands in front of her, and Cassian forced himself to focus on the questions.

They didn’t come.

“You disagree with the General,” she said, not impolitely. Merely stating a fact, innocuous and _just-so_. “You believe that there’s a merit to keeping Rogue Team intact.”

The words were directed at Cassian, who hesitated, and Mothma smiled. “You’re very careful with your intellect, Captain Andor,” she said. “What I’ve heard seems to be true. You’re a good agent — as is the Major — and the both of you have convictions. I believe I understand Major Kay’s, and now I’d like to hear yours. You believe something different. What is it?”

Cassian chose his words carefully. “I believe that the General has a suspicion of Erso’s background. It makes him more amenable to the option that she be insulated from possible temptations — prevented from falling back into her old ways.”

“Aptly put,” Mothma said. “And what do you say to that?”

A pause, as Cassian chose his words. “We work well together. Operation Ally was an experiment — a high-stakes experiment — and I believe that it showed how Rogue Team as it is might produce favorable results for the Allies. I think Jyn Erso is…unique. It takes a delicate balance with her, and I think we've achieved that.”

Mother smiled slightly. “That’s not quite what I’ve heard from the General,” she said graciously. “But allow me to summarize. You believe there's to be some good in your continued collaboration with Ensign Erso, even at the risk of conflict over Galen Erso — should the mission turn against the factor of his survival, and that might indeed be quite likely, depending on what we hear of this elusive weapon.”

“We have no way of knowing if he was involved,” Cassian said. “The Nazis have scientists all over Europe — forced or willing. Galen Erso is just one physicist.”

“A _brilliant_ physicist,” Mothma said. “With past ties to the man we believe is running their experimental science operations. The logic is sound, Captain, and the inference justified. Galen Erso likely played a role in this — and his creation, in whole, or in part, appears to be capable of a grievous level of damage. We cannot afford to let our judgment be swayed by extraneous considerations.”

A pause, and Cassian glanced at Kay, whose silence was as much as he could hope for — that he wouldn’t contradict him out loud, not in front of Mothma.

Cassian had a feeling they were never offered the choice to begin with.

“So I ask again,” she said. “If your orders are to kill Galen Erso, and the outcome of the war depends on it, will you be able to pull the trigger with Jyn Erso at your side?”

Cassian already had his answer, and they all knew it. “No,” he said. “But I don’t believe that the first option should be to eliminate a potential asset.”

“Neither do I,” Mothma agreed. “The General is a military man, as you can clearly see, and I come from a long line of politicians. I believe in a diplomatic compromise, whenever possible. However, the unpleasant question bears asking, Captain Andor, and you’ve answered it. You are one of our best operatives, but if Jyn Erso remains at your side, you foresee trouble if the mission turns against her personal interests.” She shook her head slightly. “That cannot be allowed to happen.”

“My Lady,” Kay said, not quite interrupting, but speaking where he hadn’t been expected to. It was sufficiently out of character to make Cassian look at him in surprise. “My speciality is strategic analysis, and it seems to me like we’re all working off a — and do excuse the bluntness of my phrasing — flawed assumption that Galen Erso _will_ have to be assassinated. There’s absolutely no guarantee that he will be. It is possible, yes, but one thing I’ve learned to expect from Jyn Erso — and by extension, her genetic relations — is that she defies prediction. The General believes she’s erratic, and I did too — until I saw those so-called erratic abilities deliver us an impossible victory, and the safety of Saul Guerra. Jyn Erso brings considerable benefits as an operative, and given the nature of the mission, _she_ is the certainty, while her father’s fate remains to be seen. Therefore I believe that the reassignment is a mistake.”

Kay drew himself up to his full height, his spine impeccably straight, and nodded, as though he’d said all he’d meant to say. There was a silence, and Cassian was stunned. Because he’d expected Kay’s logic-based wariness of Jyn to mean he’d push for the reassignment — or at least fail to fight it — not… _that_.

Maybe, in spite of appearances and probabilities, Kay didn’t want Jyn and the others reassigned either, the team broken up and scattered across Europe. Maybe a small part of him (and Cassian already knew Kay would make him take the secret to the grave) admired her.

“I see,” said Mothma, studied and serious. “A glowing endorsement, Major. But I put the same question to you — what if Galen Erso’s termination proves to be the only option remaining?”

“I maintain that the assassination is merely a hypothetical scenario, but if it comes to that, matters could be arranged to keep Miss Erso out of the way,” Kay said. “She trusts Captain Andor — and it won’t be easy to start over with anyone else. Whoever tries next might be sent back to us in pieces.”

Mothma looked briefly, intentionally impressed. “Then it’s quite a feat you’ve managed, Captain.”

Cassian didn’t answer, because he felt like a response would mean giving something away, and she smiled again. It was a sphinx’s smile, a smile from a painting.

“How is her relationship with agents Malbus and Imwe?”

Kay and Cassian both hesitated, because that hadn’t been the question they’d were expecting. It wasn’t good, not for them. “Amiable,” Kay said, finally. “They worked well together — in a relatively short period of time. Better than expected.”

“Then, Major Kay, on the matter of trust, you’ll have no problems if I recommend that she be kept with them for future operations?”

Kay paused, as though he knew what it meant. “No problems, my Lady,” he said, unfailingly polite. “But my views still stand.”

The sinking feeling inside Cassian’s chest took on a red-hot quality, something that smoldered like a live coal and burned him from the inside. It felt like guilt, helplessness, and something else. Conflict. Duty against what he wanted, and he wanted her. Not like that, nothing hurried or impulsive or crass. He wanted to be her friend, he wanted to know that she was all right, that she was safe — that she _survived_. He wanted to fight shoulder to shoulder, to protect her even if she didn’t need or want him to. He wanted to see her in the day and at night, to share secrets with her, to have her advice, to _learn_ her — to know who Jyn Erso was, the Jyn Erso she was and the one she was becoming.

But none of it could hold against the objective of ending the war, and the countless innocent lives hanging in the balance. What Cassian Andor wanted didn’t matter, and he couldn’t in good conscience pretend that it did.

Cassian nodded silently, and swore he heard Kay release a soft breath, a quiet concession. He didn’t fault him for it. He’d nearly lost his mind, and that was the truth, but the moment of madness — or distraction, naivety, _whatever_ it had been — it was a memory he’d never tarnish. Mad, selfish, and short-lived, but he’d felt more alive in those few breaths than he had in his whole life.

“I have taken your views into consideration, and I will remember them, if matters change. However, given the urgency of the mission, I am not prepared to take this risk without the concurring views of the Council — and they _have_ voted for the reassignment,” Mothma said. “Thus, the remainder of Rogue Team will move onto a demolition job in the North of France, while you and Major Kay will investigate the weapon that destroyed Châteaubriant through Saul Guerra’s networks and your own. The findings of your team’s investigation will be reported back to myself and General Draven.”

Cassian lifted his head. “And will those reports differ?” he asked, matter-of-factly.

Mothma smiled slightly, taking the inference that he might be an agent working for two masters. “The General and myself have aligned interests. As do we all. We do tend to see certain things in different lights — that is true — which is why I believe the shared command of a unit as crucial as yours might be…beneficial. But such a system only works if we continue to receive the same slate of information.”

“Understood.”

Mothma seemed unfazed by Cassian’s inscrutable expression. “I understand how rare it is to feel connected to the people you work with — espionage is hardly the place to foster such relationships. However, greater objectives must be kept in mind. We can’t lose this war. I hope you understand, Captain Andor.”

“I do.”

Mothma nodded. “Good. As I say, you’ve been given your next assignment. Forty-eight hours, then you’ll report with Major Kay to HQ.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Kay said, and Cassian echoed the words.

She smiled again, and it was almost rueful. “Do try to enjoy your time off. I have a feeling there might be celebrations in the city, once word gets out of a unified French front.”

Cassian nodded. “Thank you, my lady.”

She reached out and shook his hand. Her skin was cool, her grip firm. “May god be with you, Captain Andor. I hope we will continue to work more closely together in the future.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glad no one decided to come after me with pitchforks for turning Chewie into a dog.  
> But I realize that what's about to happen may get awfully pitchfork-y. Sorry!!!  
> Yeah, I realize Mothma is a weird name for an English lady to have. Still. Draven's a total bastard, just thought I'd reinforce it here. Blame him! (Not me)  
> Quick language question for French speakers: how do you say "Stop! (Or "wait") I'm a friend!" or "I speak French."  
> This is totally not for Bodhi's solo chapter that I've written up. Not at all.


	18. Everything Will Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, I was dreading posting this chapter. BUT HERE IT IS.

A heavy gray fog swelled across the horizon, obscuring the sky framed within the neat, rectangular windows of the little village house. Jyn stood on the doorstep, staring into the darkening storm, the door banging against the frame beside her. A wind was sweeping towards the house, a wind that howled and screamed with the sound of countless voices — not like the wolves she’d feared — but _people_. And pain. Too much pain to even imagine.

Jyn wasn’t a child anymore. She wasn’t ten. She wasn’t sixteen. She _was_ herself, staring at something she didn’t understand.

“Jyn, whatever I do, I do to protect you,” said Galen, and she turned, realizing that he’d been standing behind her all along, in the shade of the house, away from the light cast by the open doorway. “Say you understand, stardust.”

“I…” she began, but thunder exploded in the sky, and she saw the fog in the distance flash and crackle with some kind of white light. Beautiful and terrible, all at once. “Was this you, papa? Did you do this?”

It was Galen as she’d seen him in the photo, standing on a balcony as a near-stranger, sunken and drained by sadness, by determination, by _secrets_.

“Stardust,” he said, and he held out his hand. “Say you understand.”

Jyn remembered — something, a flash of impulse — and she raised her necklace, holding it out to him with trembling fingers. The wind was picking up, a gale, soil and loose leaves tearing through the open front door and disturbing the pristine interior of her childhood home.

“What is this?” she asked, as the crystal danced and pulsed. “What does this mean?”

“It means _trust us_.” Lyra was there too, standing between Jyn and the door and the chaos outside. They were the same height, the same face, except for their eyes.

Jyn had Galen’s eyes.

“Trust your father, and trust that we’ll always be with you,” she said, and wrapped Jyn in an embrace, like the last time mother and daughter had seen each other alive. “Hush now, it’s all right.”

“Mama.” Jyn pulled at Lyra’s sleeve, because the storm — the thundering, flashing storm — was still coming, with the full, tearing force of an ocean wave that showed no signs of breaking. “I don’t understand — wh —”

“Trust us!” Lyra’s voice was the last thing Jyn heard before a final explosion, nearer, and brighter than anything she could have imagined, turned their surroundings into a blaze of blinding white.

* * *

Jyn stirred to a sky streaked with the colors of sunset. She took a second to gather her thoughts, as though the explosions she’d dreamed had ripped them to pieces and she was clinging, grasping for the shreds. The wind still screamed in her ears, and she shook her head fiercely before throwing the covers back, hunched at the edge of the bed with her face in her hands. A dream. A nightmare. Nothing more.

She’d had worse. Far, far worse than seeing her parents, than speaking to them, than hearing them tell her things she knew and wanted to believe, just —

 _Enough_.

Jyn sucked in a ragged breath, dragging a hand across her damp face, and looked straight ahead. It was a small window looking out over the neighborhood below. The sky _wasn’t_ the color of blood, or churning with a living, hungry fog. She was in a room of a dingy government-assigned flat somewhere in the city, and she’d passed out as soon as her head hit the pillow, sleeping from morning to — well — _whenever_ it was.

The leg she’d stitched herself ached (but didn’t protest quite as unbearably when made to carry her weight), and so did the wound in her side, drawing her back to reality. Jyn sat up with a soft groan. All she had on was a shirt she’d found in the wardrobe, the kind of shirt a man might wear to work, and she gathered it around herself now, listening to the sounds around her. Whatever the flat was, clearly the agents who filtered in and out of the safe houses tended to be men, with only a few things meant for women hanging in the corner of the wardrobe. A dress, skirts, blouses, things that Jyn had never grown used to wearing — disguises, not clothes she wore if she had a choice.

A bicycle bell tinkled as it passed, followed by the faint rumbling sound of a car — rolling over broken glass from a previous night’s air raid — and the faint barking of a dog. Jyn pulled a similarly oversized robe from one of the hangers and tied it around her waist before she peeked out of the room, her throat dry and in desperate need of some water.

She’d forgotten which door led to the bathroom, and she heard noises in the kitchen — a chess game, by the clicking noises of the pieces and the conversation. Bare legs wouldn’t do in front of Kay, recent promotion or not, so she decided to skirt the encounter for now. Half her mind was still on the dream, and she wanted to keep her parents’ faces in her head, just for a little longer.

She caught the sound of running water through one of the doors and pushed through, only to see that she’d made a mistake.

It was the bathroom, but it was also in use. Cassian was standing in front of the mirror, shaving over the sink. He’d washed recently; she could tell from the steam in the room and the water sliding down the back of his neck. He was in a white vest, the kind that looked army-issue, and she could see a row of fresh stitches in his arm, much neater than the ones she’d done herself.

The two of them being dressed down wasn’t a first-time occurrence, and Jyn wasn’t the type to care, but still, she said nothing.

It was abruptly, inexplicably awkward, the same as when she’d stumbled into the cave after being passed out for days, acting before she had the words to back herself up, impulse over thought. Jyn remembered how close their faces had been when they’d listened to _La Marseillaise_ on the radio together, and how she’d impulsively grabbed his arm, holding on until she decided not to. Countless other moments that now hovered at the forefront of her mind, making it incredibly hard to see how she could keep pretending nothing was different — that nothing _could_ be different.

“Sorry,” she said, taking a step back.

“No,” Cassian answered, having also taken a similar pause. “I’m almost done.”

Jyn looked at the mostly-undisturbed soap on his face and bit back a laugh. “Don’t rush on my account,” she said, taking one look at the razor in his hand, more weapon than anything meant for personal grooming. “You might end up with another scar.”

She tapped a spot above her eyebrow, corresponding to the half-healed cut on his face, recently split open again from the battle. Cassian mirrored her gesture with the force of reflex, making them both — self-consciously — smile. He turned back to the mirror to continue shaving, but Jyn saw how he’d been about to say something, only to reconsider, and she wondered at it. Maybe something was bothering him, or she was imagining troubles just so she wouldn’t feel as paranoid, as fragile — or alone. She sidestepped to sit on the edge of the bathtub, her bare feet stretched out in front of her in blatant defiance of good manners.

Being somewhat underdressed was usually Jyn’s transgression, not Cassian’s, and she took the chance now to study the marks on his exposed shoulders and arms. There were a few of them, less than she’d expected, what with his considerable experience in the field of combat — active and hidden. But considering how careful he was, she shouldn’t have been surprised. Apart from the new stitches on his arm, there was a round mark higher up, puckered and faded over, the kind left by a bullet going through the muscle.

She wondered if he’d stitched that one by himself too.

As though Cassian was returning the favor, he glanced at the stitches showing on her leg, joining the faded scar from the wound she’d gotten at sixteen, which curved across the calf and behind the knee. “You did those yourself?” he said.

Jyn moved her foot from one side to the other. “I did,” she said. “Teaches me a lesson — something to avoid the next time.”

“Is it working?” he asked.

Jyn lifted her head to smile at his reflection, a hint of mischief there because he knew the answer as well as she did. “No.”

She put her hands beside her on the faded white tub and watched him shave. The blade made soft scraping noises against his skin, and his movements were slow and careful, wielding the sharp-edged razor in perfect, downward motions. Jyn watched because it was interesting, and because it struck her as surprisingly intimate.

They might have been two people, two people _together_ , who might have woken up in the same room, after the same night. Now, just talking, relishing the easy intimacy of it.

Intimacy was something she’d felt with Cassian, early on and persistent, but somehow it never seemed all that easy. Never as easy as she might have liked.

“So,” Cassian said, watching her now. “Ensign Erso.”

Jyn gave him a look, sensing that he was about to poke fun. “Don’t.”

“I only mean congratulations,” he said, not quite teasing her, not really. “It’s not the position of Saul Guerra’s captain, but it’s still something.”

Cassian’s tone was lighthearted, making a good-natured joke of the suggestion, but the mention reminded her of something else. A conversation — _their_ conversation — before it had been interrupted by the tremors. When Cassian had heard a rumor (from whom was anyone’s guess) and acted on it to ask her directly, instead of waiting to see whether it was anything more than a whisper. Like it couldn’t wait.

 _Why do you care?_ she’d asked.

 _Why do you think, Jyn?_ he’d asked back, like it was an answer he expected her to know.

Jyn stood, and moved until she was behind Cassian, and she could see her face in the mirror too. The hand holding the razor had gone very still, and his eyes were on her. They were both freshly scrubbed, exhausted, but _better_. Alive. They’d survived the kind of odds that counted as _impossible_ , and done some real good in the process, not enough, not nearly, but _some_.

It couldn’t have happened if Cassian hadn’t trusted her, and Jyn knew that he didn’t want anything for it — no exchange, no request — or he’d have made the trade a long time ago. Intelligence for services rendered, a clinical transaction. Efficient, expedient.

Not…confused, and _messy_ like the promise of whatever they were now, what they could be.

Jyn knew what her options were. They were two people standing in a flat that didn’t belong to either of them, in clothes that weren’t quite theirs, and they could go back to using words that didn’t feel like themselves either, limiting their most honest moments to when they’d been in the field. Because now it was back to staging, a play that was being watched by the unseen.

Jyn didn’t want that, but she also wasn’t sure if she was ready — or _capable_ — of taking the other option, the one that _would_ be confused, that _would_ be messy. More importantly, she didn’t know if he wanted to either.

An uneasy middle, between something and nothing. In a movement that was both careless and meaningful, Jyn wet her knuckle in the sink and used the back to scrub at a fleck of shaving soap he must have left by mistake, beneath his ear. A current of _something_ went through the muscles at her touch, but Cassian didn’t move until Jyn was done, reaching for the towel to wipe the lather off her hand.

“Thank you,” he said.

Jyn wondered what he was thinking. Whether it was about her, or what he’d said to and heard from the stone-faced General Draven, sitting alongside the mysterious lady with the eyes that spoke only in riddles. She rarely wondered what others were thinking, unless it affected her directly. But it was always easy to wonder about Cassian, to be curious. Dangerously curious.

“What would Kay think,” she wondered aloud, “us being in a room together, alone?”

Cassian averted his eyes from the door — left ajar — and dried his hands on a towel, cleaning the leftover soap from his face. “I’m sure he already knows,” he said, and his voice seemed cautiously light, as though he didn’t want to stray towards a subject she wasn’t ready to broach.

Jyn moved a little closer, until the folds of her robe were touching his legs, and she could feel the damp heat off his bare shoulder, his arm. Bringing the subject to the forefront, her choice, her question. “What is this?” she asked, and meant it. Because she wasn’t sure.

Attraction, whether misplaced or genuine, infatuation, slow to build and infinitely ill-timed, or just…yearning, straying close to starvation. It had been a long, long while since Jyn had looked at someone and felt something that wasn’t suspicion, read someone for a purpose outside and independent of her own survival.

 _Survival_. She’d cared about his too, to the point that she’d been sure, and still _was_ sure, that if he’d died in that forest, she wouldn’t have forgiven herself.

It had the weight of something like responsibility, and a part of her — the part that was jagged panes of dark, shattered glass and doors that swung shut and never opened — wanted to shrink away from it, but Jyn stood exactly where she was, and lifted her chin, because she wasn’t running this time.

In her silence — _their_ silence — Cassian turned, one hand braced on the sink, the other folding up the razor and setting it calmly, quietly on a ledge. They faced each other now, and either it was because of how close they were or because they’d both come without their armor, but he seemed taller to her, and his eyes — a deep, dark brown — were warmer too. Softer…different.

Had he always looked at her that way?

“A risk,” he answered, finally, and it was nearly a sigh.

 _I’m broken_ , she wanted to say, as a dozen different moments — gleaned from sidelong glances and long, quiet looks — flitted through her head, when she’d thought to herself that Cassian was the same too. Like that instant in the forest when Cassian had come for her, ignoring the plan, and something in his face, dark and twisted in on itself, had given her pause.

 _Two broken things don’t become whole, not like that_.

But Cassian didn’t seem to care, and his forehead touched hers first, his neck curved gracefully in a gesture that seemed almost like a bow, as though he was submitting to something, and Jyn felt her eyes close of their own accord, because she was giving in too.

It wasn’t the right time, or remotely the right place, but Jyn couldn’t think of a moment when it might have been, or whether another one might come along. So she touched his arms, following them from forearm to shoulder, moving closer all the while, breathing through parted lips just as Cassian did too, until one of them pushed — or they both did — and like that, the reasons _not to_ stopped mattering.

Cassian’s mouth was warm and surprising, and utterly unlike the other kisses she’d had in her life. It was hesitation and daring all at once, simultaneously easy and a challenge, startlingly complex where Jyn preferred simplicity, but she didn’t move away, because she wanted it — him — this, all of it. Just this once, at the very least this once. Jyn felt his fingers sink into her hair, drawing her closer still, and realized she was breathless with it, with _him_ , a feeling that almost soared on wings of its own — freedom so heady that it was almost intoxication, a kind of freedom she hadn’t felt since she’d been recruited as a spy.

It took her far away, far away from the tiny flat in London in the middle of a war, and Jyn barely managed to return to herself in time when she felt Cassian tense, suddenly. Before she could react, he’d already pulled away — completely without warning — and cursed, under his breath and furious.

Not at her, but at himself.

“What?” she said, as the warm glow she’d felt just seconds before began to recede, in favor of something gray and cold. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, not quite looking at her.

It wasn’t an answer.

“Cassian,” Jyn’s voice sounded sharp even to her ears, a warning. “What is it?”

Cassian looked up, and Jyn braced to hear it. “Draven and Mothma briefed us — Kay and I,” he said, heavily. “They’ve assessed the report, and they’ve decided to reassign all of us.”

Jyn felt something heavy drop into her stomach, sinking somewhere to the base of her spine. “Oh,” she said, in a very different voice.

“Kay and I will be going one way, you, Chirrut and Baze another,” he said, still in the same, cautious voice. “Separate missions going forward.”

A thought flashed into her head then, falling asleep against Cassian’s shoulder, collapsing from a hidden shrapnel wound… _what if_ —

“Was it — was it something I did?” she asked.

Cassian shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, I promise it wasn’t. They just have to follow their objectives, that’s all.”

 _That’s all_. The voice of the intelligence officer, folding everything neatly into a box and tidily replacing the lid, check marks in black ink along an ordered list, a world that seemingly — _clearly_ — had no place for her. A world that Cassian had returned to, in order to deliver the news as her commanding officer. Leaving her behind — and the kiss. A kiss she was starting to regret.

For a moment, Jyn thought she was going to hit him, but that would give away more than she’d already given, so she pulled back, back to self-defence, protecting herself before anything else. She turned her head, staring hard at a spidering crack in the wall. A question — an accusation — rose defensively in her throat, spilling out into a question she knew she’d regret. “You didn’t fight them, did you?” she said, in a perfectly flat voice. “You and your orders.”

Cassian didn’t answer, and to be honest, she didn’t know if there was anything he might have said. Signed and sealed, paperwork done, reassignments finalized. The time to fight had been back at headquarters, behind those doors that had kept her on one side and him on the other, and Cassian hadn’t.

He hadn’t fought, and that was all the answer she really needed.

“Well then,” Jyn said, getting to her feet, so quickly that her leg almost wobbled from the suddenness of the motion. “That’s that.”

She sounded nothing like herself, but Cassian wouldn’t know that. It was another part of her that she’d kept well hidden, well shielded, secrets she’d been right not to share. A part of her was a little relieved, that she had her answer to what she’d do about Cassian, going forward. Nothing, because he’d be elsewhere, and so would she.

It was a lie, of course, and she was only lying because she disliked how easily she’d almost let herself get attached, to string a line that others found so easy to snap in the middle.

To believe, for once, that she’d found something of her own.

“Jyn,” Cassian said. “I…”

But she was already out the door, and it slammed before she could hear the end of his sentence.

Jyn moved without thinking, and proceeded to run straight into Kay down the hallway. He’d clearly heard the slamming door, and Jyn kept walking, giving no sign that she’d been alone with Cassian at all.

“There you are,” he said, looking a little wary.

“Here I am,” Jyn said, and forced a smile in passing. “I heard the news — seems you’re about to be rid of me. Congratulations.”

Kay looked, for an instant, reproachful, and Jyn was briefly, impulsively grateful for it. “I thought you might take the news better if you heard it from Cassian,” he said, following as she moved into the kitchen for her long-awaited glass of water.

Jyn drank, avoiding Chirrut and Baze’s gazes (they’d heard, and she didn’t want to guess at how much they knew), until her stomach started to hurt. “Well, I’ve taken it fine,” she said. “It was… _interesting_ to work with you, Major.”

Either she was getting more transparent, or Kay was starting to learn her patterns of behavior, because he seemed undeceived by her calmness. “I know you won’t believe me if I said I argued for the team to remain as is, but you’ll believe me — I hope — if I tell you that Cassian most certainly did.”

Jyn set her glass down with a clink. She wanted to believe Kay — genuinely, truly — but a part of her wanted to rage at the news, let it burn on her skin, steep inside her for a little longer. If she wasn’t going to be able to change things, she damn well wanted to be angry at them for as long as she could.

“We all have a few days off, don’t we?” she said, casually sidestepping an answer. “I say we _celebrate_.”

Kay now looked concerned. “Are you _quite_ sure that’s —”

“Yes,” she interrupted. “And I know just the place.”

* * *

Not for the first time in her life, Jyn stared at the entirety of her possessions, sitting in a small, flat pile on a bed. Not her bed, and she didn’t have to trace too far to reason that the things didn’t _quite_ belong to her either. Some clothes, unremarkable and plain, a pair of boots on the floor, a first-aid kit and a lone knife. A gun, too. Jyn shifted it with her fingertips from the folded clothes, where it gleamed against the sheets. A silenced handgun, not hers, meticulously cleaned and kept in near-pristine condition, apart from the necessary wear and tear of frequent use. Only one person would own something like that. She must have taken Cassian’s by mistake.

Jyn dropped a shirt on top of the gun before she could chase the temptation of using it to shoot something, and dropped to her knees to get her bag. She was going. She’d speak to Han at _The Black Prince_ , get him to take her back to France. She wasn’t going to be used as a game piece, not by Draven, not by the Lady Mothma or whatever the hell she thought she was.

She’d find her father, with Saul’s help.

_Running back to the man who abandoned you._

_Chasing after a ghost who didn’t want you either._

Jyn shoved the thoughts aside, for all their snide — yet truthful — warnings. She just had to keep moving, that was all.

There was a tap on the door, and Jyn cursed under her breath. She kicked the half-packed satchel under the bed and threw the duvet messily over the unfinished pile, sitting on the end of the mattress like nothing was the matter.

“Come in,” she said.

Chirrut ducked his head in, polite as ever. “May I?” he asked. “We haven’t had much time to talk since we returned.”

Jyn caught herself before she gestured to the blind man, and pulled up a chair by the bedside. “Of course,” she said, realizing at the last minute that Baze had come along too.

Instead of looking for a chair, he leaned on the inside of the door to close it, and folded his arms, a clear sign that he was going nowhere. In the meantime, Chirrut used his staff to hook something from under the bed, and before Jyn could stop him, he’d pulled the satchel from its hiding place.

“Are we taking a trip?” he asked, pleasantly.

Baze peered at the contents from where he was. “She’s running, Chirrut.”

Jyn knew as well as they did that reporting her to Kay and Cassian would mean consequences. They might not know the details of her arrangement with F-section, but telling Draven that she was resigning would work just about as well as admitting to treason. A jail cell for the rest of the war, and beyond.

Strangely enough, she had a feeling Chirrut’s first instinct wasn’t to inform. Or report. As always, it was to talk.

That instinct was confirmed when Chirrut seated himself on the chair and brushed the dust from his knees. “Ah,” he said. “Tired of us already, are you?”

Jyn tried not to feel like a sulky child as she sat on the mattress, unable to avoid the conversation by leaving (what with Baze blocking the door) and unable to deny the evidence that was staring all of them in the face (thanks to Chirrut’s remarkable perceptiveness). “They’re reassigning us because they don’t trust me anywhere near my father,” she said. “I’m not playing their games. I’m going. I can find him myself.”

She was already looking at the window, trying to estimate the number of feet she’d need to climb all the way down to the street. Water pipes, maybe a few window ledges. She’d done it before.

“With Saul Guerra,” Chirrut guessed. “So why didn’t you stay with him instead of returning with us? He would have taken you.”

“Because…” Jyn’s tendency was to trip over her words when she was frustrated, and she _was_ , not having the patience to reason through Chirrut’s neat and ordered universe, not wanting to prolong another second of staying where she wasn’t trusted.

“Because Guerra’s mad,” Baze said. “And if you stayed with Andor, you’d be playing both sides. Smart.”

“Thanks,” Jyn answered sarcastically.

_Only I wasn’t playing Cassian. I should have._

_I didn’t._

Jyn looked away before Baze could see.

“He wasn’t playing,” Chirrut said, almost as though he'd been thinking to himself. Then, a little louder: “I don’t think the Captain was playing pretend, Jyn.”

Jyn’s expression didn’t change, because she wasn’t thinking about the kiss, the kiss she now wanted to pretend never happened. “It doesn’t matter,” she said shortly. “I’m not wasting time here.”

“But you will,” Chirrut said. “If you leave now — climbing out the window, for instance — you’ll risk getting caught, and if they catch you, your escape attempt will have done nothing but ensure that they never will. Trust you, that is.”

Jyn got to her feet and moved until she was standing in front of Chirrut. Baze was watching her, and she knew that he’d protect his friend if she so much as tried anything, but that wasn’t her plan. All she wanted to do was make sure she got heard.

“I’m the daughter of a Nazi scientist,” she said. “I’m a traitor in their eyes, and an enemy. They _won’t_ trust me, they’ll never trust me, and I was a fool to think they might.”

“The General, maybe,” Chirrut said, with his brand of inexplicable, immovable certainty. “The other members of the Council might not be so set in their opinions. But they will, if you run off into the night.”

Jyn dropped back onto the mattress again. “It’s pointless arguing with you.”

Chirrut inclined his head, as though he agreed. “Neither I nor Baze plan to stop you, if your intention is to escape,” he said. “You are completely free to choose. Whatever your father’s occupation, we would have followed you back to France. We would have stayed.”

“Why?” Jyn said, turning to Baze as well.

She felt like a leper, traitor by association, and instead of letting distrust hurt her, she wanted to spitefully let it vindicate. Hearing it from the two of them would be the last, self-inflicted hurt she needed. “You’re — you don’t know me. You barely know who I am. Why the hell would you follow me?”

She’d expected Baze at least to react, but he only shrugged. “You tried to save his life,” he said, as though that explained everything.

“What?” As far as Jyn could remember, she’d only managed to drag the both of them into actual danger, rather than the other way round.

Chirrut lifted his head. “Back in Nantes, when the Germans were about to arrest you and the Captain. Tell me, what do they teach at the academy?”

“I wasn’t paying attention,” she answered, and half meant it.

He chuckled. “Keep your cover, whatever happens. Draw as little suspicion as possible, especially once you’ve been compromised. Yet you chose to speak up, to try and save a blind man. Why is that?”

Because she’d seen the cost of Saul’s rebellion. Because she’d sensed something in the blind priest who walked as surely into the line of fire as though he had his sight, without the slightest shred of fear. Because she hadn’t wanted someone else to die because of her.

Jyn kept silent, but the lack of a response didn’t seem to deter either of them.

“Chirrut’s a blind fool, but a trustworthy one,” Baze rumbled. “And I’d listen to him, if I were you.”

“You walk on a path, Jyn Erso,” Chirrut said. “It won’t be an easy one. You want to find your father, and the easy, painless way is Saul Guerra, when the alternative is working for a command you don’t accept, for missions you don’t believe in.”

In spite of herself, Jyn hesitated. “I do,” she said, reluctantly. “I believed… _believe_ in some of it. I know the war can’t go on, and I know there’s a chance to end it if I find my father first.”

“Yes.” Chirrut nodded. “Yes, that’s indeed quite possible.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Jyn asked, finally. “Wouldn’t you run?”

Chirrut’s head was tilted slightly to the side, his habitual gesture while listening. “ _Enter by the narrow gate. For the gate is wide and the way is easy that leads to destruction, and those who enter by it are many,_ ” he said, and she recognized it — dimly — as quoted scripture. “I believe that winning a battle isn’t worth losing a war, and you could do more good here than you could on your own. Even if it means slowing the search for your father.”

Jyn didn’t say anything, and Chirrut patted her knee before getting to his feet. “Like I said, we won’t stop you. But do think about it.”

Baze gave a mock salute, holding the door open for Chirrut. “I’d listen,” he repeated.

They were both gone with a click, and Jyn’s heart fell a little, because a part of her knew Chirrut was right. As much as she wanted to throw it in the Council’s faces, she knew that the cause wasn’t just pragmatic for her anymore. Despite her best efforts, she _liked_ knowing that she’d done some good, and that she could keep doing some good.

She also knew that ending the war mattered, not just to her, but Cassian, Kay, Chirrut, and Baze. The only question left was: the battle, or the war?

Deep down, she had her answer. She just didn’t like it. Jyn got to her feet, scattering her sparse possessions, and walked up to the wardrobe. It was past five now, and she should have been getting dressed to go.

She threw open the doors, passed her hand through the stiff suits and limp skirts that didn’t fit her until she saw something that drew the eye, and pulled it out.

Staunchly, defiantly red.

_Why not?_

* * *

“She seems awfully _cheery_ ,” Kay muttered, adjusting the sling cutting across his uniform. “And here I thought she seemed to be getting rather attached to you.”

Cassian shrugged, trying not to think about his shaving soap, the residual traces of it on her skin, and the faintly flowery scent that had been in Jyn’s hair when he’d kissed her, soft as the traces of perfume left on a rumpled pillowcase. “It’s Jyn. I don’t think anyone can predict how she’ll react to anything.”

“True.” Kay gave him a sidelong look. “And you’re all right?”

Cassian took his jacket off the back of a chair. “I’m all right.”

He could hear voices in the kitchen; the others were clearly waiting for them outside. Cassian entered with Kay, and paused, a little taken aback at what he saw.

The first was _red_. The second was the realization that Jyn was sitting on the kitchen table — in a gesture sure to irritate Kay — with her hair loose around her shoulders, in a red dress that was clearly borrowed, but suited her beyond what he could have imagined.

She looked over her shoulder at their approach, and her eyes went straight past him, as though he wasn't even there.

“Any idea where we’re going?” Kay asked. “I’m not wandering around London and risking an air raid while you make up your mind.”

“Jyn was telling us about it,” Chirrut said. “ _The Black Prince_.”

“Terrible name,” Baze muttered.

“But they have very good beer,” she said. “And Han’s going to be there. He’s the one who suggested it, actually.”

“ _Lord_ ,” Kay said sarcastically. “God help us if we’re going to a place that’s to his taste. Shall I expect fire, or just brimstone and the shrieking demons?”

Jyn hopped down from the table and took her coat off a hook. “I expect the fun’s in the surprise, Major Kay.”

“Can’t you do something about this?” Kay asked Chirrut, who shook his head.

“I’m afraid she’s made up her mind,” he answered, and Cassian was surprised to find that he was the sudden focus of the blind man’s gaze. “Shouldn’t you say something?”

Cassian shrugged, because he didn’t see what he could do, now that Jyn had made her choice. More to the point, he knew it was a silent form of punishment for a clear transgression, one he deserved for letting his feelings — his _want_ — get the better of him. He shouldn’t have kissed her without telling her about the reassignment, because it had turned an accident into a betrayal of sorts. “I don’t mind the place,” he said. “Let’s go — it’s getting late.”

* * *

Broken glass crunched beneath Jyn’s shoes as they walked, in the fading daylight, across the square and towards a sign. The sky was growing steadily darker, and no lights were coming alive to replace them. Blackouts were an inevitable precaution against the nightly air-raids, windows shuttered and curtained tight, not even the smallest peep of light to guide an unfriendly German bomber to its target.

It didn’t help that she was wearing a _skirt_. A red dress, to be precise. Nipped in at the waist, folds placed and draped deliberately (not to mention bewilderingly) into the feather-light material, a skirt meant for someone who walked more gracefully — with a spring in her step — not like someone was angling a rifle at her from afar, and she wanted to get out of the street as fast as possible. It was as if all her instincts were telling her that she was making a target out of herself by wearing such a bright color, even if it wasn’t bright at all. More wine than crimson, and several inches too long around the hem. But more importantly, it was to remind herself how little she cared about the news. And she didn’t — she’d keep repeating it until it became true.

The inside of the pub was noisy, and by no means empty, tables full of people who looked no less eclectic than they did. Glasses clinked and drinks spilled by default, and music played loudly from the radio mounted near the bar, toasts punctuated by laughter and easy chatter, people having a good time trying to forget the war.

Jyn’s hair felt heavy around her shoulders without her coat, and she scanned the faces for anyone familiar, while the others found a table near the center.

“So you made it,” said a voice, wafting over like cigarette smoke. “Was starting to think you wouldn’t show.”

“Han.” Cassian seemed oddly stiff, like there was something to prove, and they shook hands in a way that looked more than a little forceful — though from which side, she wasn’t sure. “Been here long?”

“You know me, favorite watering hole around these parts,” he said, pulling out a chair for Jyn at the table. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Jyn didn’t sit, because she meant to be at the bar herself. “I think I can manage something on my own,” she said, and saw Cassian smile a little, reflex again. It was meant to make her feel warm, but it just went somewhere hidden like the prick of a knife. “Feel free to catch up.”

Reliably unfazed, Han seemed to take it as a challenge. “Hey, you said there wasn’t going to be a nice dress and lipstick — and here you are,” he said, turning her around towards the bar and sauntering at her side.

“I’m not wearing lipstick,” she pointed out.

Always capable of the smooth recovery. “Wouldn’t suit you anyway,” he said in her ear. “What’s with all the tag-alongs? I just invited you.”

“I didn't hear that part,” she said innocently. “Besides, they all wanted to see you in person.”

“ _Liar_ ,” Han chuckled, and Jyn didn’t look back once.

* * *

Cassian could see the bar from where he was sitting. Jyn and Han were still sitting side by side, talking like there wasn’t such a thing as silence between them. She had her elbows on the polished surface, leaning them a little while she listened to Han, every now and then reaching up to absently tuck a loose curl behind her ear, only for it to slide back to where it had been a few seconds later.

She’d suggested the place because she knew Han would be there.

“So that’s that, then,” Kay said, sounding significantly less worried than he’d been before. He had a cigarette in his hand, and like Cassian, he’d clearly been observing. “A little immature, inviting him along, but I suppose romance rarely brings out _that_ side in people.”

“No,” he agreed, but his tone was preoccupied. “It doesn’t.”

Kay blew out smoke again, oblivious to the girl staring at him longingly from the far end of the room. “Rather interesting how like attracts like. I thought physics was all about the opposite, but clearly humans repel scientific logic — as ever.”

Cassian briefly considered pointing out the blonde to his friend, but decided that it would likely end in tears — _her_ tears — and Kay being indignantly bewildered about why his carefully articulated analysis (regarding how their various genetic incompatibilities would likely result in human offspring that were less than beneficial to the species as a whole) had been a result of those tears. Sometimes those led to fights between bystander men who tended to feel less than kindly towards an officer who’d made a pretty girl cry — albeit unintentionally — and Cassian didn’t feel like mediating around a pub brawl at the moment.

So he let it be. He was starting to think that his life would be made easier if he practiced letting certain things _be_.

There was a news broadcast playing on the radio — a nightly reading of the news, carefully structured to include more good than bad, and everyone seemed used to listening, if somewhat distractedly. Chirrut and Baze were playing darts with a crowd of off-duty soldiers, an increasingly tipsy crowd that showed every sign of rowdiness as they witnessed something completely impossible. Cassian watched them for a little longer before turning back to his drink.

Not quite the celebration he’d had in mind. Then again, he wasn’t sure _what_ he’d had in mind — if he’d been thinking at all. Back in the flat, when Jyn had walked up to him, loose-haired and dressed down for sleep and _close_ , he’d let it overpower his conscience, the rational part of him that knew he should have kept his distance, to avoid the complications of a separation.

It was easier to draw close to someone like Han, someone who was free to act on whatever he wanted to, as free as she was to respond. They were both going their separate ways in a matter of days. It was smarter, easier if he left it at that. Even smarter if he hadn’t kissed her, but it was too late now.

“Well,” Kay said, sounding faintly cheery as he stubbed out his cigarette, “at least you still have me.”

It was a sentiment clearly meant to make Cassian feel better, but it was so incredibly badly judged that he had to laugh, setting his drink down so he wouldn’t spill it. “You’re _terrible_ at this.”

“Probably right,” he agreed. “But I find it’s the thought that counts in consolation, rather than having anything of particularly reassuring substance to say. Chances are the person isn’t even interested in listening to nice, calming words anyway. They just want to weep and tear out their hair — or whatever ordinary people do when they’re in distress.”

Cassian made a show of testing the dryness of his eyes. “No tears here.”

“Good.” Kay lit another cigarette with a click of his lighter. “Pull yourself together, Captain.”

Cassian laughed again at the still-terrible effort to cheer him up. “I know. It’s nothing,” he said. “Nothing.”

“No,” Kay said, with the certainty of someone who’d been observing. “But you’ll just have to live with it, I’m afraid.”

There was a crackle as the radio was suddenly turned up in volume, just in time to hear the first few bars of _La Marseillaise_. Everyone went suddenly silent, and the gravely voice began: “Today, General De Gaulle of Free France met with our Prime Minister Churchill, and together they issued a message, addressed to the free men and women of France, telling them that a united flag flies over their country once more. We know it now to mean that the French Resistance active in occupied France — thought to be a fractured force — have now unified, and are a force to be reckoned with indeed. What this means —”

A cheer went up from the crowd, drowning out what the announcer said next, feet and hands stamping loud enough to shake floor and table. Cassian grinned and raised his drink to mirror the dozens of glasses being raised in celebration at the news. Kay clinked his glass against Cassian’s, and he turned to find Baze and Chirrut, who echoed his toast from the short distance away.

There was one more person he wanted to see, and he looked across to the bar. Jyn wasn’t looking his way, but she turned her head, slowly, as if she’d sensed his gaze. The stubbornness, for all the defensive nonchalance it insisted on propping up, it seemed to fade as they looked at each other, and Cassian silently raised his glass to her.

She was angry at him for not having fought against the reassignment — not to the extent that she would have — and for the kiss that would go nowhere, because it had to. But now, the hardness in her eyes receded slightly, at the reminder of what was at stake and why he’d made a choice that was both right and wrong.

The skirmish at the tavern in Nantes. Fighting his way to her side when she’d collapsed from her wound. Jyn’s smile — blazing as bright as hope — when she told him that she’d managed to convince the immovable Saul Guerra to change his mind.

Her hand in his, when they’d both thought they were about to die.

Maybe the same thoughts, the same memories, they flitted through Jyn’s mind too, because she tipped her glass slightly in acknowledgment, and Cassian responded with a half-smile, quieter, infinitely complex, but more honest for it.

A new song came onto the radio then, the kind of song that everyone knew the words to, and it was met with a chorus of approval, followed by people tugging partners, friends onto the floor to dance. Excitement was in the air, the infectious glee of good news in a time that threatened to stamp out anything resembling hope, and Cassian laughed as Kay — sling and stern expression notwithstanding — was pulled onto his feet by the pretty blonde girl who didn’t seem to want to take no for an answer. But it was his turn soon enough, and Cassian gave himself over to the mindless celebration of a mission well done. Not the first time, not the last.

He’d just have to make his peace with that.

* * *

“So you and Cassian, huh?” Han said, and Jyn was startled from her thoughts, of the silent toast she and Cassian had shared from their respective sides of the room. Even when she was resentful of him — the situation, _their_ situation — he could still pull her focus with his gaze, like he was drawing a part of her towards him, even though they both stayed exactly where they were.

Somehow, neither of them ever seemed to move from where they’d planted their feet.

The echoes of the collective chiming of glasses were still just receding, and Jyn had been distracted — in spite of her determination to be anything but (Cassian’s hands in her hair, his mouth on hers). “What?”

It occurred to her then how Han’s face seemed to have been shaped for sarcasm. “C’mon,” he said. “I see the way you look at him. He’s got a hat in the ring — so to speak.”

Jyn brushed her hair off her cheek. “He doesn’t.”

“Really?” Han smirked into his glass, like he was relishing his one advantage over her at last. “That’s real funny, considering the way he looks _right_ back at you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Han shrugged. “All of us only got one life to live, sweetheart. Orders, rules — they don’t matter at the end. Why d’you think I live every day like I’m not gonna see the next one?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she repeated, “because we’ve been reassigned. Cassian’s going somewhere else, and so am I.”

Han grimaced at his drink. “Well, that’s rough. I’m guessing people who do what you do don’t get a lot of time to write letters, huh?”

Jyn smiled, mirthlessly. “No. But I’m not the letter-writing type anyway.”

Han pushed a fresh glass of whiskey towards her. “Look, I like you, and I don’t like a lot of people I meet,” he said. “You’re a lot like me. You act like you’d take what you want out of life, but there’s always something you hold off on — and that’s usually the thing that counts. Want my advice?”

“No,” Jyn answered, because she knew it was highly unlikely that Han — as similar to her as he’d said, on multiple occasions — had managed to kick the stubborn habit of _holding off_.

“Too bad, because I’m giving it anyway. _No regrets_ , Jyn Erso. I thought I wouldn’t have to explain that to you,” he said, giving her shoulder a little — affectionate, she supposed — prod. “Guess I was wrong.”

Jyn turned on the stool, her elbow on the bar, looking Han straight in the eye. “I will, when you do,” she said, sweetly, and in a tone of voice that left no room for discussion.

Han shook his head over his whiskey. “Always gotta turn everything into a negotiation, don’t you?” he said.

“Like you said, we’re very alike,” she answered.

Han showed every sign of picking up the general direction of their banter, but was cut off when a new song came onto the radio, and he turned towards the source of the music, a crooked smile on his lips like he knew the tune.

He wasn’t the only one; the crowd seemed to love it, and took it as a cue to fill the dance floor. Which they did — some tipsy, some less so, couples arm in arm, friends swaying with clasped hands, laughter and talk. It was a fast song, catchy, and Jyn realized what was about to happen before Han even took her arm.

“C’mon,” he said, pulling her out onto the floor. “Let’s dance.”

“ _No_ ,” she said, tugging a little. “I don’t dance.”

“ _Too late_.” He spun her out, and brought her back to him with the smallest tug on her hand, chest to chest, catching her weight in a gesture clearly meant to make her breathless.

Jyn just laughed, letting it all fall away. It was wartime, it was a celebration, and it was easier to leave the rest — the tangle of thoughts — behind, in favor of something simpler. She’d dance with the American smuggler who liked her and had a _lot_ to say. Drink, dance, and live. She was young, and it might be the most normal thing she’d ever do.

So she stayed on the floor with Han, who took dancing not at all seriously, and swayed like she was more drunk than she really was, following his lead. It was a blur of faces and bodies every which way she turned. A glimpse of someone in uniform, and a white sling — even _Kay_ was dancing, with a pretty girl who looked like she’d found the person of her dreams.

Jyn hated to think of her disappointed. But she’d gotten distracted, and without meaning to, she’d separated from Han because of the crowd, and she stumbled back into someone, making her mutter an apology without thinking. “Sorry —”

_Oh._

Cassian looked down at her, and her smile faded. Everyone else was still dancing — hand in hand, hands on waists — a haze of twirling and laughing. It was just the two of them, still and stiff as boards with unspoken tension, surrounded by people and alone.

“She’s pretty,” Jyn said, pointing with her chin at the girl dancing with Kay, nearly clear across the room. “And where’s your partner?”

She didn’t know why her reflex was to act as if nothing was wrong between them, like she was uncrackable, unaffected, when it felt like she owed him better.

Maybe it was because _he_ owed her better too, and he hadn’t delivered. Whatever there was to say behind closed doors with his General and the mysterious Lady Mothma, Cassian hadn’t said it — or maybe he had, but now it was just following orders.

Orders that meant they might not see each other again.

“I’m sorry,” Cassian said, suddenly.

Jyn felt the hard shell crack, just a little. “Why?” she asked, with a shrug. “You were just following orders.”

“I was — I am, but if I had a choice —”

 _A choice_. Her father had been presented with a choice, and he’d chose to leave. Saul too. Now Cassian.

Jyn started to back away, trying to squeeze between people to leave, but Cassian caught her wrist, holding her where she was. She tugged, once, and only stayed because of the look on his face. It was open, it was bared, and it was conflicted.

“I would have chosen you,” he said, in a rush. “But the war has to come first — you know that.”

_Conflicted over her._

Jyn knew, and she could admit to herself — grudgingly — that it was one of the qualities that had drawn her to Cassian, the fact that he had beliefs, _hope_ , and he fought for it, whatever it took, whatever he’d seen, whatever he would have to face.

She didn’t think she could have done it, until she’d stayed behind to give Saul enough time to escape, because of what he’d mean to the Resistance — the people all around her — the war…

Like Chirrut said, there were battles, but at the end of the day there was a war. _The_ war. Maybe her and Cassian were one of those battles that were meant to be lost.

There was a surprising freedom in the thought, knowing there was very little to lose, and Jyn didn’t pull her wrist from Cassian’s grip, but she took a step closer, and another, until they were near enough to be dancing together. Cassian’s eyes widened slightly, and she wondered why he wasn’t saying anything, until she felt his fingertips on the back of her hand, drawing up the inside of her forearm, and then onto her waist. They were close enough for his breath to tickle her cheek, and she looked past his shoulder, trying to hear the music above her heartbeat thudding almost unbearably loud in her ears.

It was ridiculous at first, until a couple dancing near them accidentally bumped into Jyn, and Cassian caught her when she knocked into him. Her hand slipped into his, fingers entwining before she could stop herself, and the other was firm on her back.

The song had changed, from fast and swinging to something slow and crooning, and Jyn shifted, curling her arm behind Cassian’s shoulders.

“ _We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when_ …” the song went, and Jyn closed her eyes, just for a second, and when she opened them again, the hard-faced, unyielding facade was gone. She could show that she cared, just this once.

Because it might be the last.

Just two people in the middle of a celebration. It was the kind of dance floor that meant people traded partners without blinking, caught up in celebrating a shared war, a bright spot in the darkness. If Jyn wanted to, she could have looked for Han in the crowd and claimed him as a partner again, and leave Cassian to dance with one of the pretty girls who needed someone to dance with, nice girls who’d probably give him significantly less grief.

But she didn’t want to, and from the way he didn’t move away from her, she sensed that he didn’t want to either.

 _What do we do?_ she wondered, as the music continued to play and everyone else continued to dance, the moment unbroken — for once.

In wordless answer, Cassian lifted one shoulder, a smile beginning at the corner of his lips, and twirled her, once, only to bring her close again. Not jokingly, like Han had done, not in a way that meant she’d spin away from him, but Jyn still felt herself mirror the smile, playing on the ridiculousness of the moment, because _she_ never danced. Yet here she was.

She could almost feel his heartbeat from how close her chest was to his, and the people around them gave her the excuse to press closer, until he spun her again and when she came back, she put her arms around his neck and her chin against his shoulder, breathing in deep.

Cassian’s mouth was near her ear, and she heard him whisper something in Spanish, something that sent a shiver of unknowing recognition down her spine, like a caress.

“What does that mean?” she murmured, looking up at his face.

Cassian’s answer felt like a caress, as good as one anyway. “Why stardust?” he asked, and she realized what he’d said. That he’d remembered — because the only time she’d ever used _stardust_ aloud was at her final interview with Draven — and it seemed like an age ago, least of all for remembering something that could have been purely insignificant.

But Cassian always seemed to have an inexplicable instinct for the things closest to her heart.

“Something my father used to call me,” she said, looking up at him. “I don’t know why.”

“It suits you,” Cassian said. “Dust from the stars, falling to earth…there’s something beautiful about the thought, don’t you think?”

Jyn tipped her head back. “I’m not as romantic as you,” she answered bluntly, making him laugh, and it sent shivers across her skin.

“No,” he said, a little quieter. “No, you’re not.”

Jyn didn’t say anything; she didn’t need to. But there was something else she wanted to do, because _as good as_ wasn’t the same as having, and just this once — even if it _was_ once — she’d let herself try. Fall, knowing the consequences. Trusting that she’d land on her feet.

They were just two people in a crowd of strangers. No one was watching, no one had the mind to. There was a chance they’d never see each other again, after the two days in London were up. Like Cassian said, he was going one way, her another.

The promise of finality gave her the bold push she needed, and she felt her heart race at the scrape of his cheek — roughened from stubble — against hers, drawing breathlessly near…almost, just not quite. Her fingertips came up to touch his jaw in a tentative caress, and he turned his head to find her, making it almost an accident when they met in the middle.

It was a kiss, an _honest_ kiss, one taking place in the middle of a crowded dance floor, brief but tinged with everything they had left to say, and things they never would. Because it didn’t matter now, not anymore. When Jyn pulled away, she found that she didn’t regret it. Not the first one, either. None of it.

What he’d do next — what they’d do next — she had no idea.

But it was all right.

“Goodbye,” she said, and his thumb traced the curve of her cheek.

They leaned close again, and Jyn closed her eyes with the side of her head pressed to Cassian’s cheek. She could feel the breath expand inside his chest, the thrum of his heartbeat, and the warmth of him on her skin. It was enough, enough for now, and as good a memory as they would ever get.

Cassian stirred, suddenly, as though he’d woken from a spell. “Goodbye,” he said, very close to her ear.

They’d stopped moving, but the music still played, and played away.

“ _Don't know where,_

_Don't know when,_

_But I know we'll meet again some sunny day…_ ”

**\- END OF PART ONE -**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY. That was the Vera Lynn song “We’ll Meet Again”, and I know you’re about to kill me for cutting it off there. I leave it up to everyone’s imagination what Jyn and Cassian did on that one day off. I know everyone was fine with the slow burn, but eighteen chapters and a couple of life-threatening incidents seemed quite enough to me, so. Yeah. They smushed faces. (:D)  
> Also, I’m gonna take a little break after this (like one week) because I think I'm coming down with something. *sniffs* But after that, we’re gonna head straight into the climax of the Rogue One movie (*sobs*). I planned a time jump after this to 1943, big year for the Allies, but not as big as 1944 'cuz D-Day. Things will explode, lovebirds gonna fight and be romantically inept, sass will keep sassing, Bodhi's gonna get his solo chapter where he does something BIG (like defect, but you knew that), and yeah. Hopefully nobody gets killed off.  
> It's been bonkers fun to write so far, and cheers :)


	19. In-Between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry it took a while to get back, pesky allergies acted up and did a whole thing with my sinuses. I did some planning during my downtime, figuring out what's Eadu and what's Scarif, that kind of thing (and most definitely NOT drawing lots to see which characters make it because I don't have a better system).  
> Anyway, PART TWO.

**PART TWO: Rogue One**

* * *

**London, 1942**

Grayish rain pelted the glass like dozens of tiny bullets. Jyn didn’t flinch at the sound, but watched the river instead, the muddy-colored water flowing silently past the bridge and onward. In the harsh light of day, the city looked like a silhouette of itself, bombed incessantly and to within an inch of its life, white buildings made smoky by fires that swirled ash and sparks into the night sky.

It had been almost a year since she’d seen the city, nearly to the day — if Jyn was the type to keep track of dates, and she wasn’t. They just reminded her that the war was churning on and on, with no end in sight.

No sign of her father, either. Or Cassian, and Kay — both involved in the kind of mysterious missions that were too high-clearance for her to hear about, but the ones that were probably making all the difference in the war. Which was why she’d been kept out of it. She’d learned fast that the Saul Guerra mission had been an exception, begrudgingly made by Draven because it suited their purposes. Since she’d exhausted her usefulness there, they’d shifted her off to the side and out of the way. Promoted her too, just to lessen the sting.

It hadn’t stopped her from maintaining contact with her old mentor, even if her assignments seemed almost deliberately issued to keep her out of his operational territory. Saul excelled at chasing rumors and following whispers, but the sporadic transmissions she received seemed to have hit a dead end. Wherever her father was, and whatever his involvement had been in the devastation of Châteaubriant, the Germans had whisked him away and kept him jealously guarded from spies.

Jyn cast a brief, frustrated gaze at her surroundings. Unlike other agents, whose time back home (so-called home) was a relief, she itched to get back in the field, her boots on the ground and with a purpose in her mind.

But she’d been _summoned_. Not to the innocuous-looking headquarters in Baker Street, for all its churning activity and clever espionage, gears in a great machine working, working silently away while the rest of London knew no better.

She was at Westminster. The Houses of Parliament, to be precise, escorted there through a civilian entrance piled high on either side with sandbags, wearing civilian clothes, as though she was any ordinary secretary reporting to work on a job. With agents, the thing was to look like they were anything but, even where it was supposedly safe. One never knew who might be watching.

Jyn had been around the British long enough to know that older was better, and judging by the state of the room — dark, wood-paneled and filled with furniture that looked like they belonged in an auction, including the chair she was sitting on that had clearly been around longer than her twenty years —  it was clearly the personal office of someone consequential. Now she was just waiting to hear why she was supposed to care.

General Draven wouldn’t be at Westminster, and apart from him, Jyn had run out of guesses. Cassian was the one who had a brain full of faces and names and ranks, filed mysteriously alongside information regarding their usefulness, strengths and weaknesses — maybe even how they preferred their tea, if only to make it easier in the event he needed to poison them.

The door opened quietly, and without warning.

Jyn turned her head, and was momentarily taken aback — but also surprised that it hadn’t occurred to her sooner.

“Hello,” said the red-haired lady who’d smiled at her like they were comrades in a shared war. “It’s been a long time since we last met, Ensign Erso.”

Mothma was in white again, a strangely impractical color given the state of London, bombarded with air raids and constant firefights, but it suited her. She didn’t look like the type of woman who’d roll up her sleeves and dig in the mud — having a title attached to her name had already marked it as out of the question — so this was just underscoring a point.

Jyn wondered if she resented Mothma personally, or whether it was just a blanket disdain, extended to the nameless Council that moved her around like a chess piece.

“I don’t think we’ve ever officially been introduced,” Jyn said. “My Lady.”

The last part, she’d added only belatedly. Credit to Kay — his manners had rubbed off on her, just a little too late for him to see the results.

Lady Mothma smiled in her understated way and moved silently across the room to take the seat opposite from Jyn, behind the imposing mahogany desk. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve called you here,” she said.

Jyn straightened up a little. “Is the Council granting my official pardon?” she inquired, without much conviction behind it. “I’ve done your work for two years — and I have the scars to show for it.”

“I’m afraid pardons only come from His Majesty the King,” Mothma said, having the good grace to look Jyn in the eye while she passed on the responsibility. “And as I’m given to understand, your pardon comes at the resolution of your father’s case.”

Jyn held up her open hands. “I can’t resolve something if I’m not allowed anywhere near it,” she pointed out. “That’s not on me.”

“Indeed. As it happens, that does have some relation to our discussion today. I do hope the reassignment didn’t come as too much of a shock — I assure you that your performance was praised by your previous commanding officer.”

Jyn kept her face blank at the implicit mention of Cassian Andor, because that — her reaction, her feelings — wasn’t for Mothma to see. Anything she felt for Cassian, past or present, was a matter left between them. People like Mothma had already done enough to interfere.

“Captain Cassian Andor is still alive and well,” Mothma added, making Jyn wonder how much she'd guessed on her own. “As is Major James Kay.”

Jyn’s first — traitorous — reaction was to feel relief, but she tamped it down, down and down again. “Good,” she said, coolly. “At least someone’s being useful.”

She wondered if she was trying to get a rise out of the Lady Mothma, the same way she took a small, vindictive pleasure at irritating the stone-faced General. But Mothma wasn’t so easily aggravated, and she folded her hands neatly in front of her, watching Jyn with her pale blue eyes. “I’ve been following your progress, Ensign Erso,” she said. “You’ve been doing very well. Twice the Gestapo came close to capturing you and your teammates, twice you managed to give them the slip. We’ve come across the warrants for your arrest — seeking a young Frenchwoman named Lyra, and they’ve put quite the reward on your head.”

In spite of herself, Jyn found a glimmer of amusement. The rationale behind choosing her middle name — and her mother’s first — was personal. Childish, even. Because if there was going to be a name that gave the Gestapo cold shivers, she wanted it to be Lyra’s. Because if her mother had been alive, Jyn had no doubt whatsoever that she’d have raised hell.

“So I’m being useful then,” Jyn answered.

“Quite,” Mothma agreed, turning her head towards a map hanging on the wall. It was France, divided and divided again into colors and lines demarcating the concentrations of power, and strategic landmarks Jyn didn’t have the clearance to decipher. There was a thoughtful pause, during which Mothma seemed to be choosing her words with infinite care.

“I cannot tell you the substance of Captain Andor and Major Kay’s current mission,” she said, giving Jyn a sidelong glance. “However, I am aware that your first choice would have been to remain with them.”

Jyn didn’t speak. It was pointless, and any answer would just be another mark in the endless dissections of her, the hidden evaluations, and she didn’t have the patience to contribute.

“The General has considerable sway in the Council,” Mothma said, and her tone made Jyn listen a little closer.

It was the same way Cassian sounded when he was trying to hint at a subject without bringing it up directly, his mind thinking two steps ahead to try and get her there without disobeying orders of secrecy.

“He, and several others, harbor some… _reservations_ about the state of certain agents’ loyalties, given their personal history and family connections. Naturally, that impacts what kinds of assignments they will be permitted to take.”

 _Such as the mission no one’s telling you about, the mission that Rogue Team was split for_.

Jyn nodded silently, and Mothma continued as though it had been a signal that she understood. “Hypothetically, such agents could prove themselves trustworthy through the completion of successful assignments, challenging assignments. A mission like Operation Ally is a good example, so is the record you’ve accumulated in our service, and the one I’m about to impart to you.”

Jyn wasn’t fooled. Mothma may have been different from the General, but that didn’t mean she lacked an agenda. Or the ability to manipulate — or she’d never have been involved in F-section work at all. “And how many assignments will I have to complete before I’m trusted?” she asked. “Or is the honor of being _trusted_ by command a posthumous qualification for people like me?”

Where Draven might have scowled, Mothma remained frustratingly unfazed, her expression like still, reflective water. Utterly unsatisfying to needle. “I understand your frustrations, Jyn,” she said, and the use of her first name — a small shock all on its own — made Jyn feel like they were finally speaking face to face. “But you should know best of all that there are rules to whatever we do, rules that weren’t set by you or I, or women in any form or manner. Men hold that power and spend it like pennies, while we have to play their game, or they won’t let us play at all.”

“So break the rules,” Jyn said, with a shrug. “No one can force you to play.”

The stubbornness made Mothma smile, not derisively, like Jyn was being naive. This was something else, something more appreciative. “That may be,” she said. “One day, soon — I hope — a woman braver, and more spirited than I may decide to do just that, break the rules and make them her own. But, for now, I am a woman in a man’s job, with considerable power at my disposal. I understand the rules, not so I don’t break them, but so I can master them to get the outcome _I_ wish.”

There was an unyielding quality behind her voice now, something new and harder and more resilient than the fluid metal that always seemed to shadow her words. In contrast to the politician and the Council member Jyn had seen, this was a Lady Mothma that would not bend, who would not compromise, who would not negotiate.

It was easily the most honest she’d ever been, and Jyn had a feeling it was only the case because Mothma’s generous patience had been strained.

That seemed to be Jyn’s strong suit, utilizing aggravation to get results, and the least she could do was show that she was following along with the train of thought.

“You’re telling me to learn,” she said, carefully, “and play the game better than they can.”

Mothma inclined her head. “I have every faith that you will. Which is why I’m assigning you the task of setting up a Resistance circuit for us in the north of France.”

Jyn raised an eyebrow. “I thought I was being assigned to demolition.”

“As I’m sure you’re aware, running a Resistance circuit will involve precisely that, and other responsibilities. Recruitment, preferably kept as local as possible, coordinating and maintaining communications with London, identifying targets for useful sabotage and executing said operations. A considerable responsibility.”

“With considerable risk,” Jyn said. “The leaders are the ones the Gestapo shoot first.”

Mothma didn’t smooth over the ugly truth. “Yes,” she said, frankly. “But you must also be aware that the female operatives we send to France are given the role of courier or wireless operator — never to head up a Resistance circuit of their own. That’s never happened before, and you’ll be the first to do it. If you accept, that is.”

“Do I have a choice?” Jyn inquired.

“Of course,” said Mothma. “The option to be told what to do upon your return to France — or give the orders yourself.”

Jyn smiled, unwillingly. She looked out the window again, past the streams of rainwater blurring the glass. “Baze and Chirrut come with me,” she said. “I need them.”

“Of course. They were never going to be diverted.”

“And you’re saying that _if_ I do this, and do it well, people like General Draven won’t interfere with the kinds of assignments I’ll be given?”

“Hypothetically, it would be a considerable help. It’s an organization built on proven trust, I’m afraid.”

“Yet another rule,” Jyn said, using Mothma’s analogy now.

Mothma smiled. “Indeed,” she said. “Now, do you accept?”

Jyn considered it. "Keep me out of your politics. I may not like the General, but I'm not interested in being a pawn for anyone either."

Mothma didn't seem altogether surprised that she'd underscored this particular point of concern. Now she seemed almost amused. "There's considerable power in learning politics, you know."

"I'm sure there is," Jyn agreed, as close to being pleasant as she could be. "And I'm sure there's a woman better suited than I am to take on the General Dravens of the world. My preferred method of conflict resolution happens to fit in a holster."

"I see." It was impossible to tell if Mothma was disappointed when she leaned back slightly in her chair, surveying Jyn again. "A soldier at heart."

Jyn lifted her shoulder. Not in rejection of the classification, just a lack of interest in it. “And what’s this network called?”

Mothma's amusement was plain now. “We decided to call it _Renegade_ ,” she said, like it was an obvious joke. “I very much look forward to seeing what you make of it.”

“So, my orders,” Jyn said, drawing her conclusion, “to cause as much trouble for Germany as I can, and prove once and for all that I’m on your side.”

“Yes.”

Jyn’s smile felt razor-sharp, because she’d struck a deal. “When do I start?”

* * *

**France, 1943**

It had been a good day, all things considered.

The darkroom was quiet, apart from the occasional ripple of water and the soft — almost soundless — dripping from the suspended lines of film and steadily drying photographs. Jyn watched as the submerged square of white paper darkened to form the shadows and outlines of the Saint-Quentin canal.

One of the lock gates, to be precise.

Jyn picked the fresh photograph from the basin and pegged it alongside the others to drip-dry on the length of rough washing line that ran across the wall. The light inside the small closet was as red as a dying sun, and Jyn stood with her arms folded while the last few prints soaked, scanning each photo like they told a story.

Chirrut had the patience to wait for the process to finish, but was disqualified from contention for obvious reasons, while Baze — fortunately in possession of unimpaired sight — unequivocally did _not_. Jyn was the compromise between the two, albeit one who had some trouble standing still for any reason at all.

But the photographs were important, they _mattered_. Saint-Quentin was the industrial hub of northern France, and the amount of traffic that went through the canal in one day couldn’t be ignored. Machinery parts, finished munitions, essential supplies…all routed through a city whose importance was accordingly matched by the requisite strength of German armed forces.

Their objective was sabotage. Jyn, as she was mostly loath to do, was following her official directive, as leader of the Renegade circuit.

A tap on the door. Almost eleven, when _Radio Londres_ would broadcast for the second time that evening. Jyn would listen, just as the others would, and others like them, all over occupied France and beyond.

“Almost done,” she called, and moved to retrieve the last few photographs.

They were the dummy shots, the ones she’d been forced to take under the pretense of being keen to document the sights. They were of nothing in particular, an old church, the town square, one of the back streets, a field with nothing but rusting barbed wire…

Jyn hesitated at one of the prints, thinking she’d seen something that wasn’t really there.

 _Someone_.

There, in the shot of the town square, a man half-turned towards the camera. Dark hair, lean, about the right height and build, but no — the shoulders weren’t right. He didn’t stand the same way either, slouched where he was meant to stand straight, not postured, just…natural.

She stared for longer than she was supposed to, wondering if she’d ever stop looking for Cassian Andor in a crowd of faces, of strangers and maybe-enemies, as though he was the memory she couldn’t quite shake.

Curiosity had always been the danger with Cassian — among other things. Jyn couldn’t help but trace him with her thoughts, without meaning to, wondering even though it was unlikely to lead anywhere.

She hadn’t seen him since London, in the winter of early 1941. Not since Rogue Team had been split up and reassigned for a purpose kept unknown to them. Jyn hadn’t been made aware of the specifics, except that Cassian was somewhere else. Resistance networks operated all over France — he might have been sent to train _maquis_ somewhere in Brittany, or to spy in Paris, or maybe he wasn’t even there at all. Maybe the search for Galen Erso — a search General Draven _ensured_ she’d be at arms length from — had taken him elsewhere, more dangerous places that meant he might have been dead for days, weeks, months. Jyn knew he wasn’t, but he might as well have been, from the moment they’d said goodbye.

There seemed to be a multitude of goodbyes. In London, in a crowded pub full of people celebrating good news while the two of them had kissed. At the train station, when their hands had caught — caught tight — for a brief, blazing moment before she’d let him go. Sometimes she wondered if there ought to have been a morning, a morning where Jyn might have looked at the outline of Cassian’s bare shoulders and sketched it with her pencil while he slept, her bare legs curled beneath her, hair falling across her cheek, conscious that it was quite possibly the last time they might see each other.

But no, a deliberate choice had been made. It was a cleaner goodbye, a neater end to the sentence — should it come to that, and there was still every chance it might.

Jyn was sparing with physical affection, not in the sense that she’d never kissed someone before (not even close), but in the sense that she never let it mean more than shrewd pragmatism, or — in rare instances — plain attraction, the brief and necessary satisfaction of a curiosity.

There was the fifteen-year-old boy she’d kissed at thirteen, a full-fledged member of the faction and the only one who wasn’t terrified of her. He’d died six months later from a deal gone bad, and Jyn had spent the next month having nightmares of bullet wounds that oozed black blood.

Sixteen, and she’d done it to steal the man’s wallet.

Seventeen, so that she could filch the officer’s identity documents for a forgery job.

The list went on.

It wasn’t the first time Jyn had gone through the explanations with Cassian in mind, and come up short. Because it wasn’t pragmatism — kissing a commanding officer who wasn’t commanding her anymore barely qualified as useful — and it _was_ attraction, but it never ought to have swayed the former.

Maybe something a little more.

There was no point to it, no use, and no end. Jyn could imagine all of it — all the scattered recollections and the sudden, _sharp_ moments of clarity — without changing one damned thing. That she had no idea where Cassian Andor was, and he probably didn’t know where she was either. Her priority was the search for her father, and the days without news from Cassian — a brief message brimming with regret — was a good thing, because it meant that Galen was still alive and out of reach.

They were a mass of contradictions — her and Cassian — and sometimes Jyn wished she could have gone back to simplicity, to surviving. But there were other things that made the aches and pulls worth it, and they were the friends she’d made in the process, unlikely, strange, and people she wouldn’t leave. Not now.

There was another tap on the door, and Jyn opened her eyes to the red room, the last memory of Cassian’s mouth on hers fading away, and reality expanding in its place.

There was an envelope waiting on a shelf, and she slid it into her fingers before reaching for the light switch.

It blinked out, and she emerged into the dingy kitchen, where the radio was, and so were Chirrut and Baze. Jyn let her hand rest on Chirrut’s back for a brief moment, a habit by now, before she slipped over to stand by the kitchen sink, joining their guest.

“For Saul,” she said, holding up the envelope containing the coded messages, their habitual correspondence. “Send him my love.”

Han’s lazy smirk appeared around his trademark cigarette. “Your love, sure, but where’s mine?” he asked.

Jyn rapped him on the chin with the envelope, unamused by the witty rejoinder. “I thought your only love was cold, hard cash,” she answered, and Han accepted the papers with a laugh, tucking them into the inside pocket of his vest.

They stood side by side with their backs to the window, her shoulder reaching about halfway up his arm by virtue of their vastly different heights, Han’s elbow touching her back because he was the master of the devil-may-care posture, even when he wasn’t at a bar negotiating a trade. Two years and America finally joining the war hadn’t put the smuggler in a private’s uniform (so much the worse for them), but drummed up enough black market business to make Han even busier than he’d used to be, doing what he did best. Staying on the wrong side of the law and being annoyingly good at it, passing through every now and unannounced then with his recognizable smile and sarcastic American drawl.

Somehow he always found time to get her messages to Saul Guerra, and Jyn didn’t feel a pressing need to ask why. It was enough that seeing the smuggler show up on their doorstep — wherever they’d moved to next — was a genuine relief. Familiar faces were hard to come by, when so many others seemed to pass and vanish.

The messages to Saul Guerra (along with Han acting as courier), were strictly Jyn’s personal business, tinged with an element of the Resistance only because they happened to be passing between a circuit leader and a renowned General. But strictly speaking — Draven’s strictness — Jyn wasn’t meant to be doing it at all, keeping up a correspondence with her old mentor.

Then again, it wasn’t as if she would have let something like official orders stop her.

They were just rumors, anyway, what she sent Saul. She dealt with information stolen from the Gestapo and intercepted from German transmissions, and every now and then there seemed to be stirrings of information that held elusive links to Galen. Meetings and reports, opportunities to spy, in the hopes that one day they might be able to pin down his location by finding the mysterious hub of experimental science, his shadowy employers.

The man in white, Otto Krennic, a name and image that could set Jyn’s teeth on edge, her chest afire with hate. Still as much a ghost to her as he was from the start, nothing more than a photograph and a promise of revenge.

Sometimes an unbearably slow one, but Jyn was getting rather good at bearing things.

Han cast a look around the small apartment, with its threadbare curtains and unremarkably square furniture. “You know, I liked the other place better,” he said, like they were talking about a questionable property choice Jyn had made of her own accord. “Had more light.”

Baze looked up from the wooden thing he was whittling — precisely what, she wasn’t sure, though _lethal_ was probably a safe assumption — like Han was a buzzing fly he was itching to whack. “You still have the address. Go tell the Gestapo agents squatting there that you want to move in.”

Jyn snorted under her breath, and Chirrut smiled at no one at all while Han made the (wise) decision not to snipe back at Baze.

“Trouble?” Chirrut asked. “You were in there a long time.”

There was never much point in lying to him, so Jyn didn’t bother. “I _live_ for trouble,” she answered. “This is the kind I don’t like.”

“The kind you could fix, if you left a message at HQ the next time we’re called back,” Chirrut said, as though he was reminding her of something. “I know there are messages left for you. But you never reply.”

_Because they never say anything._

Jyn let the question sit, like it didn’t bother her to have everyone stare at it, waiting for her answer — one she had no intention of making. Even Han, usually the first one to tease, kept conspicuously silent, though Jyn could practically hear the questions reciting themselves like his thoughts were being narrated aloud. Along with several lurid scenarios she wasn’t interested in entertaining, but clearly amused him to no end.

“Y’know, if you asked me to make a detour — I wouldn’t mind,” Han suggested. “Wouldn’t even charge you extra. Flat rate. Where is he these days, huh? Heard there’s trouble down in Marseille.”

“There’s trouble everywhere,” Jyn said, because while lying was somewhat pointless in present company, side-stepping was not.

“I mean the kind of trouble you _do_ like,” he said, too easily. “Marseille? Lyon?”

Jyn’s response was to pluck Han’s cigarette from his fingertips, only so she could toss it into the sink to smolder, and proceeded to shoot him a look that dared him to say more. “I know where you keep the rest.”

Han turned to Chirrut and Baze with a shrug, as though to say he’d tried. “Stubborn, isn’t she?”

A look passed between the two, the kind of worn-out look guardians might give each other over a clutch of children for whom they were responsible. Jyn had been with them long enough to know that they preferred wordless gestures, a touch at the back of the neck, Baze putting his hand on Chirrut’s head in passing, small things from two people who’d made habits of existing close to each other, and had no plans to change that in the near present.

In spite of herself, Jyn managed a small smile. Who was she to judge, anyway?

Baze was smoking, and he looked at her, raising his chin slightly in a question while the clock ticked down to eleven. “Well?”

Jyn was thinking of work again, watching smoke curl from the end of Baze’s cigarette. “The lock gates on the canal,” she said, absently. “We should blast them.”

“Why not?” Baze rumbled, sarcastic but kind, in his own way. “Let’s get started tomorrow. I’ll send the messages out to the others.”

Chirrut’s hand found Jyn’s, an innocuous gesture, and no less kind. “A little louder, please, Baze,” he said. “I can’t seem to hear the radio.”

Han leaned a little more against Jyn, almost a nudge, and she let him. Fall evenings with the scratchings of radio broadcasts from far, far away, crackling tobacco and low-voiced conversation about dangerous jobs — it was a measure of routine in an unreliable world, one Jyn was content with, and she wasn’t built for contentment.

“ _Voici un message personnel._ _Georges enlasser sa femme Fabienne_ ,” the announcer said solemnly, countries and a sea away, the first in a series of coded messages made to sound innocuous, sent from relatives living in Britain to their relations all across occupied Europe, maybe even a little silly, but nevertheless read as though each meant the world.

To someone out there, it did.

* * *

“ _Georges enlasser sa femme Fabienne,_ ” the radio said, and Cassian looked up.

Four other faces looked back, expressions ranging from apprehension, to resignation, to thinly-veiled outrage. One of them was Kay, and he was the only one who seemed anything close to nonchalant as he exhaled a small cloud of smoke, and proceeded to stub his half-finished cigarette into the ashtray made of battered tin.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said calmly. “That’s that.”

The three other _maquis_ didn’t seem remotely as at ease with the news. “Then Guillaume — Henri — _Leo_ network —”

Cassian nodded. “Captured by the Gestapo because of her. If the message said ‘kissed’ instead of ‘embraced’, she’s innocent. But it didn’t, and we all know what that means.”

The cottage was dimly lit, the room small and close from the shuttered windows, despite the muggy heat. Everyone’s faces had a thin sheen of sweat, and moths fluttered persistently around the exposed lightbulbs. One of the _maquis_ spat on the floor. “ _Collaboratrice_.”

Cassian took it as a sign of assent, not that he’d required one. “I’ll handle it,” he said, pulling the handgun from his belt and checking to make sure it was loaded. “The body’s still in the shed?”

“The Nazi pig?” chimed in another. “We left him there to rot. It’s not polite to leave a lady to wait on her own.”

The other two didn't laugh, and Cassian sensed their unease. It was a dark time to be part of the Resistance movement. Collaborators were betraying F-section agents and _maquis_ faster than untrained carelessness and taking reckless chances ever could. They’d lost three circuits so far, and this was the fourth to be compromised. The only thing limiting the damage was the nature of the system — each fighter was only ever aware of two others, so in the event of a betrayal, the most that a network would suffer was the loss of two loyal agents and one informant.

The trouble was where the informants had a tendency to repeat themselves, and Cassian had been tracking double agents like her across the country.

Kay automatically joined Cassian as he slipped out of the cottage door and made his way towards the shed. The door was chained, and when he stepped inside, the first thing that struck him was the smell.

The dead body in the corner had begun to ostentatiously, unashamedly, decompose, but Cassian still motioned for Kay to close the door behind them. There were already some flies, and the number — and noise — would only increase if they left the surroundings open. The woman was sitting on the far side of the corpse, her wrists and ankles tied with thick rope, a sack over her head, and she only turned her head slightly at the sound of their movements.

Cassian reached into his back pocket for the photograph, and laid it flat beside the woman’s shoe. It was a pretty shoe, dark blue velvet and stylish. If he’d gotten there sooner, he would have spotted the surest sign of Gestapo favoritism before she’d had the chance to compromise the two _maquis_ that were either in a prison cell, being tortured for information in the worst ways imaginable, or dead.

The thought didn’t make him angry — just sad. Wistful stories and hopeful speeches always spoke of the darkest times bringing out the best in every person, some kind of mythical, primal instinct to aid and cluster in support and brave the troubles sent their way, but in Cassian’s experience, the darkest times usually served to give questionable people the excuse to make themselves hellish, and turned fear into the easy excuse for horrific acts of betrayal.

Cassian pulled the sack from the traitor’s head. “Mariette Carré,” he said, as though they were in court, and she stood in the place of the accused.

Carré was pretty, undoubtedly so. Hair in thick dark brown waves, wide blue eyes and full, naturally pouting lips set in an oval face. But hours in captivity had plastered her hair to her face, and her cheeks were smeared gray from melted eye makeup, her red lipstick smudged. Unmasked, he saw her eyes shift to the corner, where the body in German uniform lay, half-covered by a sheet of rough hemp, a dried staining of red beneath the boots.

“If it’s any consolation,” Kay said in French, lighting another cigarette, “he didn’t suffer. You were his mistress, weren’t you?”

She didn’t answer, and Cassian tapped the photograph to draw her attention to the faces. “Guillaume,” he said, pointing to one of the group, “and Henri,” pointing to another. “Do you remember them?”

Again, no answer.

“Now, Miss Carré, there’s very little point in lying,” Kay chided. “We know that you and Henri were involved in a romantic capacity — or _he_ was, anyway, which makes your showing up in poor Major Schröder’s private parlor a little suspect. Granted, it _was_ Bordeaux, so you probably thought no one would find out. Unfortunately, we did.”

“They gave me no choice,” she answered, in a low voice that quavered only slightly. A tremor meant to signal emotion. “My family —”

“You mean the brother who died of typhus two years ago, or the aunt that lives in Geneva?” Cassian asked, flatly. “We researched you. The rest of your family died long before the Germans came.”

Carré fell silent, and her stare had dull resentment in it now.

“I thought so,” Cassian said, and shifted the gun so that it rested sideways on his knee, not quite pointed at her. Not yet. “What else did you tell the Gestapo? Whose names did you give them?”

She laughed now, her smudged red mouth looking like it was filled with blood. “What does it matter? You’re going to shoot me anyway.”

“Yes,” Cassian answered. “But I always ask, just in case traitors like you feel like some redemption. Who knows? They might let you bargain, wherever you end up.”

The words were cold enough to bite, a voice he spared only for traitors, and she bared her teeth, all pretense of vulnerability gone. “Go to hell.”

“Fair enough.” Cassian slipped the photograph back into his pocket and stood up, releasing the safety on his gun.

“Shall I?” Kay asked, and Cassian knew he meant it, that he’d take out his own gun to shoot the double agent. But the blood was better off on his hands, and Kay had executed his fair share of traitors — they both had.

Cassian shook his head silently, and stared down the barrel at the eyes of the traitor. They had a little bit of green in them, but no brown. Not like hers, not like Jyn’s. Still, it was enough. Dark hair, the set of her mouth, blue-green eyes — it was enough to make Cassian sure that his memory would find a way to twist it into his nightmares, if he managed to sleep that night.

Mariette Carré was not Jyn Erso.

Cassian adjusted his grip on the gun, aware that he was sweating, that a hot line of perspiration was making its way from the back of his neck, past the collar of his shirt, down to the base of his spine. “Any last words, Miss Carré?” he asked.

Mariette lowered her head, as though she was sinking low in a curtsy. “You pass judgment on me,” she said, “but there are no good men left, _messieurs_. Only those who survive. _Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer_.”

The gunshot exploded inside the small, confined space, and she hit the floor with a thud. Cassian bent, not looking at the body and the vivid spatter of red it left on the shed’s dirt floor, retrieving the spent bullet casing and wrapping it in the rough sackcloth.

“It had to be done,” Kay’s hand rested briefly on Cassian’s shoulder. “I’ll let the men know where to bury the bodies.”

A pause.

“She didn’t look anything like her, you know,” Kay said, when Cassian still didn’t speak. “Miss Erso, I mean. Any resemblance was merely perfunctory.”

The shed door was open now, and Cassian stepped silently into the relief of the open air, as warm and stagnant as it was, sucking in deep breaths to clear the smell of fresh blood, dead bodies, and the charred scent of gunpowder.

They’d left the cottage door open for light, and the shovels began to work at digging a single, deep grave for the two enemy corpses. Cassian reached into his pocket — not for the _maquis_ network photograph — but a small leather notebook he kept with him, no larger than the palm of his hand. It was, as always, as innocuous as his cover demanded, with nothing to compromise or suspect. The first few pages were filled with lists of everyday items, crossed out to mean they’d been fulfilled, innocent appointments at places similarly struck through. But Cassian shifted the backing to get at the false seal, and retrieved what he’d kept with him every since he’d left London in the early hours of January, 1941.

It was photograph of Jyn, taken from her personnel file at HQ. There’d been several of them, grainy shots captured during the search for her in enemy territory, better ones taken after she’d begun training at Inverness, and finally, most recently, with the other members of her Resistance network. _Renegade_ , a name that drew an instinctive smile of pride, even more because he knew that it was one of the few thriving circuits left in occupied territory, even rarer for its startling, destructive productivity.

The circuit photo was too dangerous to take with him into enemy territory, with the risk of capture and interrogation ever-present, but Cassian remembered it just as clearly, as if he held it in his hands. She’d been in the middle of a band of young men and women, sitting on the hood of an armored car alongside Chirrut, her arm on Baze’s shoulder. The two men looked more or less the same, Baze reassuringly over-equipped and indiscriminately threatening about it, Chirrut holding only his staff, dressed in the disguise of an innocuous priest. The rest had rifles, their faces serious and unsmiling while they faced the camera. Jyn hadn’t smiled either, but she’d lifted her head, her chin raised, staring directly into the lens like she was throwing out a challenge, and more than that — taking ownership of her place in the world and the war that had torn it to pieces.

Jyn Erso had always been something of a mystery to Cassian, one he’d never completely managed to decode. Now, with two years of separation and silence between them, he knew that she’d have changed. The young woman he’d first met at the heart of occupied France and sat under the stars with at Inverness, shades of vulnerability and hammered, forged steel — there was a chance, more than a chance, that she’d become a memory. Jyn was adaptable after all, for all her stubbornness. She’d always done what she needed to survive, and vulnerability was difficult to justify in dark times.

All the same, Cassian couldn’t feel regret, not at what she’d become. It gave him a small ache to think of it, but Jyn looked _right_ , in her place at the center of the group. Like she was in her element, leading a band of soldier-spies intent on raising hell for Nazi Germany, the first female agent in charge of a Resistance circuit in France. She’d been abandoned and given every reason not to care, but against all expectations had taken a cause of pure rebellion and made it her own. Even if there was no place for him now, Cassian couldn’t feel anything except pride — along with more than a little worry — that Jyn had come into her potential. She _belonged_.

Cassian hadn’t meant to take anything from the file, not when he’d been in the records room to update the names of lost agents, but —

He’d wanted something tangible, a physical reminder that existed as more than a memory. A reminder that there had once been _more_ to what he was now, a moment when he’d thought there might be something else, something better.

The photograph he had now wasn’t of the Renegade circuit, but Jyn — just Jyn, taken sometime during her time at Inverness. She’d been looking off into the distance, likely just having finished a session in the hills. Her face in the other pictures was distant and almost aloof, but he’d chosen this one, because it seemed to have a quality that seemed more like her than the others. It was a direct stare, one that was uncompromisingly _present_ , defiant and startling all at once. She’d looked like that, more than two years ago, when their faces had been close and drawing closer still, all while the crowd danced on around them, oblivious.

Cassian remembered how it had felt, kissing Jyn (an _at last_ that turned out to carry more _last_ in it than he’d initially imagined), how she’d pushed against him, hesitating, and then more confident, how he’d mirrored the insistence in her movements to kiss her back, letting his fingers sink into her hair to draw her nearer still. Her mouth could form words that landed like actual physical blows, but it had been soft and needing beneath his, and made him sure — as sure as he could be — that he hadn’t been the only one wanting the kiss, for longer than he cared to admit.

Then, the word that he’d expected but still dropped with the weight of a stone when it came —

 _Goodbye_.

The dim orange light fell in a stripe across Jyn’s face, preserved in black and white, and with a familiar pang of something unnameable, Cassian returned the photograph to its concealed place, then to his pocket again.

He lifted his head to look at the sky. More than two years since he’d last seen her. Two years since they’d parted ways because he’d had to focus on the mission, the search for the weapon and Galen Erso.

Years of chasing rumors, phantoms, and nights lying awake, imagining the same earth-shaking tremor and a blinding roar of light that would wipe him out before he could so much as make an attempt to run. But the weapon hadn’t surfaced, remaining no more than a rumor to anyone who hadn’t seen it up close, stories that were either too ludicrous to believe, or frustratingly vague.

Whatever its success had been in France, something had made the Germans take it underground again. At first he’d thought it was a delay, the kind of strategic waiting that meant poising for the opportune moment to strike.

But now he was starting to think otherwise. They’d been given some time, more slack on the rope, and he was still chasing a half-finished weapon that for some strange reason, wasn’t good enough to release, not yet. It hadn’t helped that as of late, mission priorities had shifted in favor of tackling compromised Resistance networks all over France and the danger of collaborators giving over precious agent identities over to the Gestapo.

An unfinished weapon meant Galen Erso’s life was still precious _alive_ , and Cassian continued to try and glean information from the ever-elusive, ever-frustrating Saul Guerra, work made twice as slow without Jyn’s help. But General Draven — along with the rest of the Council — seemed to be in agreement that Jyn’s involvement had yet to reach _unavoidable_ , so Cassian continued to scrounge for scraps of information from an unwilling source, from informants they'd planted in the faction, chasing leads that, at best, ended up being fringe pieces of a puzzle left unfinished.

Cassian wondered how much of it was because General Draven disliked Jyn on principle, or because the man’s trust in him was fading, or because he sensed something that disrupted his preferred sense of militaristic order, an element of unpredictability that he didn’t want to risk having near his best operatives.

Kay joined him, still smoking. “They always say it’s darkest before the dawn,” he said, “but no one ever mentions how one is supposed to tell if it’s the _darkest_ yet, do they? I suppose that’s the point — giving one a reason to think things can't possibly get any worse.”

“Is that supposed to make anyone feel better?” Cassian inquired.

“Just thinking aloud, old chap. How are you?”

“I’ve been better.”

“We all have.” Kay puffed again, quietly. “Only thing to do is keep bearing it. Soldier on. Plenty of work left to do.”

Cassian was still for just a moment more, then he nodded. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Galen dreamed of the beach, of sand, the first time he’d ever taken Jyn to the coast. At the young age of six, the most she’d ever been to was the pebbled brook that ran behind the village, but he’d taken her and Lyra to Marseilles, where she could build houses with the fine white sand and be buried up to her neck until her limbs and face were bright pink with sunburn and unadulterated happiness.

“Papa, look,” she said, showing him a rounded tower meant in a rough approximation of a château.

Galen had been watching Lyra, walking along the water with her shoes looped around her wrist, her skirt bunched in her hand to keep it clear of the rippling waves. He looked over now, his attention given unfailingly to Jyn, and studied the structure, built whimsically and painstakingly unlike the blocks and squat houses he’d expected from a child her age. “It’s gorgeous, stardust,” he said, hugging her around the middle until she’d kicked, laughing. “How smart.”

“Papa,” she asked, later. “Why do people build things?”

Galen pointed at the sand turrets. “You mean like your château?”

“Yes,” Jyn said, clambering behind his back, her arms down his shoulders with her head on top of his. “And the things you build. You’re always drawing them on paper.”

Galen thought about his answer, as he always had to, with someone as precocious and absorbing as his six-year-old daughter. A careless response would mean he'd never hear the end of it, not from Jyn or Lyra.

“For any number of reasons, stardust,” he said. “Everyone’s mind works differently.”

“What about you?” She was tugging gently on his beard, making him laugh.

“I build…because I dream,” he said. “I build things because I want to make life better for everyone, not just our family. That’s my dream. Your mother and I wanted to love someone together, so we decided to create you.”

It was Jyn’s turn to laugh, but something about her first question fascinated her, like his mind was a puzzle that she badly wanted to decipher. “Can I see your dreams one day, papa?”

“Of course. I insist on it. One day, I’ll teach you. All of it, little stardust.”

She giggled. Lyra’s laugh, just as free and light. So much like her mother, a balance of immovable earth and the lightness of air. Galen had spoken of dreams, but all of it paled in comparison to his daughter, the love he hadn’t known he could hold for a child — his child — until it _was_ , and the certainty that he’d do anything for Jyn, his flesh and blood, his greatest creation, past, present, and future.

As the sky — the blue sky — began to darken, clouds churning and flashing with a sudden storm, Galen realized with an ache that he’d never told Jyn. A mistake often made was assuming there would be all the time in the world, and Galen hadn’t realized how theirs would run so brutally, unforeseeably short.

“Lyra,” he said, turning towards the water.

But his wife was still walking, oblivious to the darkening sky. She’d let go of her skirt, and it bobbed along the surface, soaking in water, drawing her further into the opaque sea.

“Lyra!”

Jyn’s arms were around his neck now, and she was breathing hard against his shoulder in audible distress. “I’m scared,” she whispered. “Papa, I’m so afraid.”

“Shh.” Galen rose to his feet, carrying his daughter in his arms, his eyes still on his wife, a shrinking figure in the distance. “Lyra!”

“ _Galen_.” Someone was shaking him. “Galen, wake up.”

The water flashed with a single strike of lightning, and the flare of white was still behind Galen’s eyes when he woke. Bodhi was standing over him, looking worried.

“Bodhi,” Galen said, sitting up. He’d fallen asleep on the cot in full uniform, his desk — his office — located just an open door away. There were better quarters for him in the barracks section of the base, but as of late he’d made it a habit — an unquestioned, not out-of-character habit — for him to take his breaks and rest in the small room adjoining his workspace.

It had taken two years for a pilot with Bodhi’s racial status to gain even some of the clearance necessary to go further than the main gates, beyond just allowing his access to the mess hall, and only during the last six months had Galen been able to start using him as a messenger and on-base courier, so as to give him the chance to see the interior of the base, to memorize its layout firsthand. That, alongside a grasp of English and a great deal of luck, was among what they’d badly need in order to carry out what they had planned.

“What happened?” Galen asked, immediately. “What’s the news?”

“My shipments have been shrinking — you remember —” Bodhi still stammered, less than he used to, only finishing half his sentence before moving on to the next thought, as though the person listening would lose interest unless he got to his point as fast as humanly possible “— but now they want me to fly southwest. I think they’ve found a mine, s-somewhere in France. I got a look at the pilot’s cargo — he went before me — and it’s more, much more than we’ve been getting from mines back home.”

“That’s not good.” Galen got to his feet, ignoring the habitual ache in his bones as he did. “We’ve only slowed down because the fuel for the weapon was getting scarce.”

“And the Allies have been taking out planes faster than we can build them,” Bodhi added. Quick with thoughts, always observing. Galen was momentarily reassured, remembering how quickly Bodhi had managed to sharpen his English, product of the books he’d devoured since he was a child, and an education from parents he only sparingly spoke of.

The time was coming, and soon. Bodhi would have to go. Galen had managed to delay a second test of the weapon for as long as he could, helped by scarce resources, recurring defects, and the fallout after Stalingrad. Shielding problems, premature energy dispersal, excessive heat and instability during transport, all questions he’d worked slowly to resolve, telling Otto Krennic that it was meticulous care, a desire not to get things wrong. The war with Russia had gone poorly, but wasting resources on a single detonation with no guarantee of the best results would be even more of a devastating waste. Besides, making sure that the vessel could carry the weapon all the way to enemies in Great Britain and America required extreme caution, and the perfect calibration of the destructive weapon.

Better to bide their time, and wait. The Führer only wanted the best, and Galen promised to deliver.

“C-come with me,” Bodhi said, suddenly.

Galen looked up from his papers, the map he was reading, the flight routes they’d both gone over — to find ones that meant the least likelihood of tailing and enemy fire, but possible with the amount of fuel Bodhi would be carrying on his plane, all without raising suspicion.

For a brief, fleeting second, he imagined delivering the message to Saul himself and seeing his daughter, a daughter he hadn’t seen in years and probably wouldn’t recognize. _Stardust_ , all grown up, and alive, because he’d chosen not to entertain the possibility of anything else.

But just as quickly, he smothered the thought, the foolish hope. It would be selfish. He was needed here, near the weapon. The fatal weakness had been carefully planned, but would require even more care and attention to conceal once it was there, diverting unfriendly attention from it with the subtlest of means.

Galen couldn’t afford to compromise it now, all for the selfish indulgence of seeing his daughter — his and Lyra’s — with his own eyes. Ten years.

“I’m needed here,” he said. “If I leave, they’ll suspect the weapon, suspect something’s wrong. I can’t.”

“But your d-daughter…” Bodhi began, his eyes emphatic, and sad because they reflected what he saw in Galen. “She’ll — she’ll want to see you.”

“And I her,” Galen answered. “But I can’t abandon the plan now. I know my duty, and it’s here. If the weapon is destroyed, and my work is finished, I’ll see her again.”

“ _When_ ,” Bodhi emphasized.

Galen smiled, slightly. “ _When_.”

Bodhi was too perceptive to be convinced by a compassionate lie, so Galen acted quickly to make sure it was glossed over. “You have the tape?”

Bodhi nodded. “It’s been on the plane since you gave it to me. H-hidden. They won’t — they won’t find it, I p-promise.”

“Good. And are you sure, Bodhi?” Galen asked. “You don’t have to do this. The risks are…considerable. If they catch you, they’ll shoot you.”

Bodhi swallowed, and for a moment, Galen thought his hesitation was a sign that he was about to reconsider.

He was mistaken, gravely, gravely so.

“Y-you told me once that if — if someone was in need of help, and I — I could _help_ , that there’s no reason to stand by,” he said. “They lied about what happened in France — when they — when they tested the weapon. But we know. We know what they did, what they’re doing, not just with the weapon — with people like me, people like — people who don’t deserve to die. It’s not right, and if I can help g-good people stop them, it’s what I have to do — it’s what I want to do.”

Bodhi lifted his chin, and Galen took in the young man, barely older than a _boy_ , standing with his shoulders straight and head held high for what seemed like the first time since he’d met _Pilot Bodhi Rook_ on the ESD base. Anyone would make the mistake of looking at a downtrodden, painfully shy soldier and assume that was all there was to him, but the greatest acts of bravery never came from those who were courageous to begin with, who’d been gifted with power and strength and position their whole life. They came from people who spent their lives in fear, taught by a harsh world to shrink and cower, until something gave them the strength to battle their inner demons, and the devil on their shoulders, to do things that few could ever dream of.

Overlooking people like Bodhi Rook was why Germany would lose the war, and Galen believed it to be true.

“Then thank you,” Galen said. “Bodhi. Thank you.”

Bodhi ducked his head at the gratitude, instinctively sure as ever that he didn’t deserve it, and Galen hoped — because he wasn’t a man of prayer, and had never been — that Bodhi would live through it all, the war that never seemed to end. That he would _live_ , and _live_ , and realize that he deserved all of it, more than a world as cruel as theirs could give him, and more.

“When should I go?” Bodhi asked, and Galen had to return to reality again, to plan, to think.

Southwest France. If Bodhi’s cargo plane was supplied to make that journey, it would be just enough to find Saul Guerra’s last location, and deliver the message.

“Soon,” Galen answered, as a fire began to spark in his chest. “Any day now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's a look at where everyone's at, post-time jump. I feel like I always give Cassian the worst things to do. Jyn gets to hang with Han Solo and he's off shooting double agents *shakes head*  
> Next chapter: Bodhi's big adventure. Cannot wait to share :D


	20. Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, sorry for the wait. Life and school got very busy all of a sudden.  
> But here's to you incredibly patient people. I present BODHI’S SOLO CHAPTER.

Bodhi fidgeted in the pilot’s seat. He’d spent most of his life in the army waiting, waiting at the mercy of others, but today, it was different. There was a _chance_ it might be different. Today might be the last day he’d be at their mercy, only they didn’t know it.

The thought of rebellion was meant to fill him with bravery, to make him feel like he could have taken on the world, and Bodhi had foolishly believed it to be so. Until he realized that even the smallest thought of defiance was enough to make him flinch from the imagined sound of an executioner’s gun, the _snap_ that meant he had just seconds left to live. Bodhi couldn’t have gone up against the worst soldier in the Wehrmacht, not even if the man was blindfolded with both hands tied behind his back. He felt _that_ small.

_Not now_ , he told himself. He needed to be brave now, or at least _pretend_ that he was. Not for himself, but for the man braver than any one of them could imagine. Galen. Galen who’d thought of the plan in meticulous, painstaking detail. Galen who’d never taken it for granted that he was asking Bodhi to do the unthinkable, as though he couldn't imagine what his kindness to Bodhi had to do with it. Galen whose message he carried, hidden beneath the seat in case they searched his plane — and he knew they did, officially upon entry and before departure, and in secret, as soon as he stepped away. Trust was never a given with people like him, whatever it said on his identification papers about his clearance level. To them, he was a thief, a sneak, and a liar.

If Bodhi managed it — and his skin began to creep with shivers at the thought — command could add _defector_ to that, and it would be the first thing he’d seen written about him that was true.

There was a bang from outside the plane, and Bodhi jumped, his hand going to the pilot’s goggles perched on his head. He wore them constantly, like a well-loved toy he might have been teased about as a child, carried for security — and they were. They made him feel anonymous, unnoticed. That was the most he’d wanted, and in a way, it still was.

They were worn, the leather straps and joins between the lenses about to split apart, kept together only by constant mending and Bodhi’s sheer force of will.

Four soldiers stamped up the doors to the cargo hold. “You,” said the officer. “Inspection.”

It was a well-rehearsed routine, and Bodhi slipped out of his seat to do as he was told, expecting — and receiving — a rough shove from one of the guards, while another tried to trip him up as he left.

Rubbing a sore spot on his knee, Bodhi put himself against a wall, between stacks of crates, and settled in to wait. He glanced at the other planes, at the open mouth of the landing area. The weather had been good for the last few days, ironically the opposite of what they’d wanted. Fair weather made for a less dangerous flight, that was true, but it also meant that fighter planes — German ones, built like hunting hounds — could find and target a renegade plane more easily. They’d ask for radio confirmation as well, of course, and storms meant that Bodhi could at least delay, pretend that he was losing signal rather than deliberately straying off-course.

They also needed a night where the base’s planes might be needed elsewhere, occupied with defending against or attacking some enemy force. British planes sometimes ran into trouble on scouting flights, inadvertently getting too close to the perimeter, and the German forces would always respond with a vengeance, to prevent their location from being reported back to Churchill and the people — the _legends_ — who fought Adolf Hitler from faraway London.

Many things, many little things that could — with the absence of one or more — make the difference between a successful escape and a fiery heap of wreckage if Bodhi failed. But Bodhi didn’t care that he might die; in the face of what they might do to him if he was captured alive, dying was the easier escape. He feared for Galen, what it might do to his spirit — more fragile than he’d seen in years — if he suffered another setback. Every day the weapon continued to receive the strange crystalline fuel from mines all over conquered Europe was another day that a piece of Galen’s soul cracked, and crumbled to ash.

It wasn’t fear that had him. It was guilt. His conscience couldn’t survive it, though Galen was fighting hard to stay standing, to keep going.

Bodhi had already promised he would, but now he promised again. He couldn’t be a coward now, and he couldn’t let Galen down. He wouldn’t just beat the odds, he’d make sure that he found this man — this myth — named Saul Guerra, and maybe, just maybe, Galen’s daughter, whoever she was.

She’d be able to save him, because Bodhi couldn’t.

He had to believe that much was true.

* * *

Galen’s pencil scratched in the margins of the plans, making notes on the stealth armor covering the long-distance bomber. _Diffusion ratio_ , he wrote, in the sparse way that the engineers working under him had learned to understand. He didn’t spell out problems for them the way a doctor excised dead tissue with a scalpel. In that respect, Galen was more an artist. He saw things in their broad expanse and drew attention to the areas of detail, fixing and adjusting based on a mixture of abstract instinct and what he’d learned — and was still learning — in his career as a physicist.

He heard footsteps and continued to work. Footsteps went to and fro all the time, echoing louder than usual because of the exposed steel floors, the plane that was being rushed on its way to completion.

A monster meant to carry out a monstrous act, the destruction of an enemy.

No, _eradication_.

Unlike the usual, the footsteps stopped, and Galen heard a loud, forceful exhale.

“Galen, it’s beautiful,” Krennic said, looking at their surroundings.

Galen was standing in the half-constructed piloting deck of the bomber plane, and he looked around, squinting slightly and pretending he’d been a man far away in his work, too distracted to seem pleased because of the constant puzzles laid out before him.

Even though he felt his pulse rise in warning, because Bodhi’s departure would be made more complicated if the armed escort accompanying a Colonel of the Reich got involved. But he couldn’t show it, so he didn’t.

“Otto,” he said, walking forward in welcome. “I wasn’t told you’d be visiting.”

“I report directly back to Herr Hitler himself,” Krennic said, making no effort to hide his pride. “He’s an impatient man, and nothing pleases him more than hearing about the weapon that’ll be the death of Churchill and Roosevelt.”

Galen felt a bitter taste at the back of his throat from the savage glee on Krennic’s face. “Both at the same time might be a little ambitious,” he remarked in a placid voice. “The most I can promise is one after the other.”

Krennic dismissed the qualification with an impatient wave of his hand. “You’re too serious, Galen,” he said. “That was always your problem. You have all the talents and the skills of a dreamer — but your eyes are always on your books.”

“I leave all the dreaming to people like you, Otto,” Galen said. “Sometimes I’m so tired that if I close my eyes, I think I’ll never wake up again.”

“Fine. Glory and the thanks of Herr Hitler for me — a good night’s sleep for you,” Krennic answered. “How’s that?”

Galen smiled, forcing past the stiffness in his muscles. “Perfect.”

“When will it be ready?” The same question, asked each time like there might be a different answer.

Galen looked up at the welders, hard at work with fiery torches that rained sparks onto the dark steel. “The fuel certainly makes things easier,” he said. “The only problem is the crystals on their own — the ones we receive from the mines are too fragmented. Merging them together under the right conditions adds an extra step we weren’t planning on.”

“Between you and me, there’s another problem. Our ground shipments are getting ambushed on their way out of France. Blasted France, as usual.” He spat, in a visceral expression of his disgust. Krennic’s moods were sharp and unpredictable, and all the glee and boyish pride had vanished now, at what was clearly a thorn in his ambitions.

“What’s happened?” Galen asked, even though his instincts were thrumming now. “Why are they ambushing the convoys? The crystals are of no use to them without the right machinery —”

“How would I know?” Krennic said irritably. “Maybe they thought it was coal. And now that they know it isn’t, they’re just trying to spite us. All that matters to them is a German flag they can burn. _Savages_.”

“Where are the attacks?” Galen asked, because he knew who would be bold enough to stage direct attacks on enemy shipments, rather than the Resistance’s more clandestine methods of derailing train tracks under the cover of darkness and cutting power lines.

Saul Guerra, alive and well despite the claims rife in Germany of his demise. The only blight for Krennic in the blazing victory that was the first testing.

“The Central mines. It started near Pontgibaud, then it moved to Marseille, lately it’s been Lyon.” Krennic still looked like he was seething. “I’m almost tempted to order another test on Lyon — so they can learn the same lesson as Nantes had to. If that…that _creature_ still lives, we’ll get him, once and for all.”

“Otto,” Galen said, striving to keep his tone as that of a reasonably detached observer, not a man trying to save his friend, and hundreds of thousands of innocent lives. “Does that really matter? Guerra is a speck of dust compared to the real enemy. Once we complete the weapon, we could take Britain in a matter of days. Washington will be within reach. One man doesn’t matter in the overall scheme of things.”

Krennic looked reluctantly, begrudgingly convinced. “It makes little difference anyway. Weapon or no weapon, the net’s closing on Saul Guerra. We have Lyon, and a network of informants. Saul Guerra will stand trial in Berlin before the year is out — mark my words, Galen. He’s laughed in our faces for the last time.”

_I’ve heard you say the same before, my friend. You tried to crush Saul Guerra with a mountain and he still escaped_ , Galen thought, in a brief, dark flash of defiance.

But outwardly, he nodded. “A man like him wasn’t destined to live long,” he said. “I have every faith we’ll see him soon.”

The words of encouragement seemed to have soothed Krennic’s temper, and Galen took advantage of the brief respite to gesture for an engineer. “Why don’t you inspect the work we’ve done with the stealth armor?” he suggested. “I’ll join you once I’ve finished my notes.”

“Trying to get rid of me, Galen?” Krennic laughed. “Fine, I’ll leave you to work in peace. Apologies for disturbing.”

He cuffed Galen on the shoulder and proceeded down the walkway, his boots echoing on the steel. Galen turned back to his work, even though his mind wasn’t focused on the design plans, not in the least.

Saul was causing trouble in Lyon. That was enough of a direction for Bodhi, and to come now, of all times — it had to be a sign.

Krennic was gone, and Galen began to walk, quickly.

_Tonight_.

* * *

The ESD base never slept, and Bodhi knew it too well to expect anything close to a slow-down, a convenient lull in security that might let him slip through unnoticed. Shipments happened during daytime, less so at night, but Bodhi needed it to be nightfall. He’d be spotted if he tried to land in broad daylight, especially since the Germans would be looking for their defector, and the French for a _Luftwaffe_ plane and pilot to burn.

Bodhi doubted either side would pause at all to appreciate the irony of the circumstances, a Trojan horse attacked by both the Trojans _and_ the Greeks.

None of this was making him feel any better about what he was going to do.

The soldiers were in the process of refueling the aircraft beside his, and Bodhi watched all of this happen, trying (and failing) not to shoot intermittent glances at both the hangar and the concealed compartment in his chair where Galen’s message was. It felt like sitting on a red-hot iron, and in one of his nervous sweeps, he inadvertently saw a glimmer in the far corner of the loading bay, a reflection — nothing more.

Bodhi knew it meant more. He checked that the soldiers were occupied with supervising the refueling before he hurried soundlessly from the plane, walking towards the pile of crates and repair equipment.

Galen tucked the small mirror into his pocket when Bodhi found his hiding place, and they both hurried deeper into the maze of cargo, into the shadow beneath the half-finished hull of a bomber.

“They’re about — about to start the refuel,” Bodhi said. “Am I going? Is it tonight?”

Galen nodded. “The Colonel’s here,” he said. “I heard from him that the fuel shipments are being disrupted near Lyon. It’s Saul, I know it. You have to find him, and make sure he’s warned — Krennic thinks the Gestapo are closing in. I have no way of knowing how much is true.”

Bodhi didn’t either, but if he was putting down money, the Gestapo and their network of collaborating informers didn’t sound like a bad bet. “Right, so p-pass him the tape, and warn him to — what? What should I warn him?”

“His only hope is to keep moving,” Galen said, like he knew it by heart. Then again, Bodhi remembered how he’d managed to evade the Colonel, even disappear — for a time.

There was a pall of shadow over Galen’s face now, but he gave his head a shake. “Find a large, open field to land. You’ll need at least six hundred feet with a plane like yours. You’ll have spare gasoline — burn what you can, give yourself as much time as you can to get away before they identify you. Make sure your transponder’s deactivated, but not the radio, not until the last possible moment.”

Bodhi tried to follow the logic of the fast-moving instructions in his head, and some of it made sense, some of it less so, but the gist of it was that everything was happening. It was all happening tonight.

“And your flight suit,” Galen said. “Don’t hold onto it.”

Bodhi nodded, jerkily, like the joints in his neck were rusty bolts. He pressed his hands into fists, because they were trembling. “I — I’ll remember,” he said.

Galen gripped his arm, and there was only the same understanding in his eyes, the understanding that told him it was all right not to hide his fear. “I have something for you,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “I took the liberty of making you a new pair — yours seem to be falling apart.”

Bodhi didn’t realize what he meant until Galen presented him with a pair of flight goggles nearly identical to the pair he had, only as good as brand new, metal that wasn’t rusted, leather that hadn’t almost been worn straight through…

Galen tapped the bridge between the lenses, prying the piece loose to show Bodhi the glimmer of pale, cloudless white within. A single glimpse was enough to make Bodhi’s heart leap, bringing to mind the memory of the crystal he’d found in his plane, the fallen wedge that he’d later been too afraid to keep, pressing it back into Galen’s hands. _If they find it on me, I’ll — I’ll be shot_ , he’d said, hating himself for being too afraid to hold onto even the smallest relic, the smallest keepsake. To look at something so beautiful and only see what horrors it could bring him.

Galen hadn’t said anything, then, but now Bodhi watched him press the metal piece back over the crystal, concealing the gleam from view. “My wife used to study these crystals,” he said. “She told me once that they bring good luck, so I thought you finding it was a sign — this one belongs to you.”

“That — that was an — an accident,” Bodhi said, even though he’d already let Galen put the pair of goggles into his hands. “It’s not — I mean —”

“My daughter has a necklace made from this crystal,” Galen said, very quietly. “A gift from her mother, my Lyra.”

Bodhi felt himself stammer into silence. He took a closer look at the gift, not at what it _was_ , but what it meant. Galen was wishing him the best of luck by giving him more than its weight in words. By putting his hopes into Bodhi’s flight, mirroring a gift his wife had made to their daughter, as though to say that he was…he was something close to family.

His throat tightened, and Bodhi pulled the old, fraying goggles from his head and replaced it with the new pair, pushing it down to his forehead, exactly where it was meant to sit.

“T-thank you, Galen,” he said, blinking away the sudden, childish blurriness in his eyes. “You’re — you’re taking a big risk. I’m — I’m just a pilot.”

“No, Bodhi,” Galen answered, putting a hand on his shoulder and bending slightly to look him in the eye. “You are not just a pilot. You are a very, very brave young man. Dark times give people reasons not to listen to their hearts, to look the other way at atrocities, to make their peace with evil, and I want you to remember that not ten men in a thousand would have the courage to do what you’re doing tonight. Never forget it.”

“Do you — do you really think it’ll work?” Bodhi asked. “What if — what if it doesn’t?”

“Then we’ll keep trying,” Galen answered. “On, and on, until my mind ceases to work, and the last breath leaves my body. It’s too late for me to make things right, but what I can do is make sure that the right people have the chance they need to end the war.”

“Come with me,” Bodhi said again, desperately this time. Without Galen, the fear would take him, sink its claws into his chest and never let go. “Sneak onto the plane. _Leave_. We don’t need the plans if we have you — with your memory, you’ll be able to recreate everything. You just — you just can’t stay. It’s…it’s killing you.”

Galen shook his head, hesitating even less than when Bodhi had asked the first time. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve told you, I need to be here, or they’ll suspect the weapon.”

Bodhi opened his mouth to interrupt, but Galen shook him, gently. “Bodhi, it’s all right,” he said, as though he knew, as though he could see the fear threatening Bodhi’s resolve. “ _You_ can make it right, if you’re brave enough, and you are. All of it comes from _here_.” He pointed at Bodhi’s chest. “You have a good heart. Let it guide you to do the right thing.”

Bodhi took a deep breath, feeling the tremors slow, and slip away altogether. Galen breathed with him, a hand on his shoulder, patient, asking for nothing more than Bodhi was capable of, because he saw him, saw him for exactly who he was.

In a rare moment of hope, Bodhi saw himself like that too. “I’m the pilot,” he said, straightening his shoulders. “I’m carrying the message. I can help them end the war.”

Galen nodded. “Yes, you can.”

“I’m the pilot,” Bodhi repeated, taking strength from the words, like they were a mantra that would carry him through the storm about to come. “I’m carrying the message. I can help them end the war.”

_I’m the pilot_.

Bodhi hugged Galen then, without self-consciousness or doubt, promising that it wasn’t the last time he’d see this rare, kind man who’d been forced into a role he’d never wanted. A peaceful visionary who’d been coerced into making what promised to be the worst weapon mankind had ever seen. A scientist who’d seen his dreams warped into monstrosities beyond his nightmares.

“Give my love to her, won’t you?” Galen said, his voice hoarse in a rare display of emotion. “Tell Jyn I love her dearly. Tell her she’ll always be my Stardust, whatever — whatever happens next.”

“I will.” Bodhi squeezed his eyes shut, willing his words not to fracture in the middle ( _the last time he’d hugged his mother, the last time she’d kissed his forehead_ ). “I’ll find her, Galen. I promise.”

Galen nodded, and gave Bodhi a small push. “Go now,” he said, taking a step back. “They’ll be looking for you. _Go_.”

Bodhi mirrored him, backing towards the plane. When his shoulder bumped into a crate, he turned, taking one last look at Galen Erso before he broke into a run.

The plane was fueled and departure-ready when he returned, muttering a hasty excuse. The soldiers gave him a cursory check, turning out his pockets for anything suspicious, and Bodhi deliberately didn’t think of his new goggles, not the strange, white crystal it concealed, Galen’s last gift, a good luck charm Bodhi shared with his mysterious daughter.

“Hurry up,” said the officer. “We’re waiting on a fresh shipment.”

Bodhi saluted and took his place in the pilot’s seat, pushing the radio headset over his ears and hailing Control. “Cargo unit 111H ready for takeoff,” he said. “Pilot Rook requesting departure clearance.”

The reply buzzed back, but Bodhi’s heart was hammering in his ears, and he reacted out of gut instinct, moving the plane forward into the light fog of rain.

“ _Cargo unit 111H, clear._ ”

The blades on the plane’s nose began to spin, and the engine rose into a high, clear whine.

_You can make it right, if you’re brave enough._

_You have a good heart. Let it guide you to do the right thing._

For the first time in Bodhi’s life, he was going to listen.

_I’m the pilot._

The plane roared down the runway under the cover of darkness and single patches of intermittent white light.

_I’m carrying the message._

The wheels jolted as they left the ground, and Bodhi took the plane higher, higher, slicing through the clouds.

_I can help them win the war._

The imposing black shadows of the mountain fortress fell away, and Bodhi was clear. He breathed in slow, breathed in deep. “Goodbye, Galen,” he said quietly.

* * *

Galen was on the ground, and he walked now towards the open hangar entrance, careless of the icy rain on his face, in his eyes. Bodhi was long gone, vanished through the clouds in his cargo plane, but he still stared at the night sky, as though it might give him the reassurance he needed that Bodhi would make it.

Lyra had always understood the crystals better than he ever did, not the science of them, but the _spirit_ , the elusive essence that made them defy belief, that made them unlike anything they’d ever seen.

He didn’t know if she would have approved, giving the boy the fragment he’d found, though he could guess. Lyra had always been kind, for all her fierceness and her _fight_. She was as much a lion as Saul, but with a softness to her that had always been lacking with the old general. She’d take birds with broken wings, all feathers and weak, broken cries, and Bodhi was one of those.

Galen liked to think that his wife might have been very kind to Bodhi, if she’d met him. If she were still here.

Maybe Jyn would be too.

The thought of his lost daughter made Galen’s chest ache, a distant, hollow pang that made him feel like he was staring into a vast abyss. He’d never know what his daughter was like now, whether she’d taken on Lyra’s traits, and where she hadn’t, whether she’d adopted his. He’d never hear her laugh, or be able to soothe her nightmares, or hold her in his arms again.

But it was his penance, his small, incomplete atonement for his part in the weapon. As a matter of instinct as well as logic, Galen knew it wouldn’t have been right if he’d done the selfish thing and tried to flee with Bodhi. The irony of the plan he’d devised and executed faithfully over a matter of years — in his new lifetime as Krennic’s almost-hostage — was that his survival as the architect ceased to matter as soon as he’d sent the message on.

The message that was on its way to Saul.

_It’s out of my hands now_ , he thought.

But there was still much to be done, so Galen watched for a moment longer, before turning, and returning the way he’d come.

* * *

Bodhi scanned the darkness for signs of life, but apart from the silvered rush of passing clouds and the brief glimpse of black-as-night trees, he might as well have been flying blind. He’d flown the route dozens of times before, but that had never included a last-minute detour, an unsanctioned bank of radio silence and intentional loss of transmissions.

His hands were tensing up on the controls, slick with cold sweat, and Bodhi wiped them on the legs of the flight suit. But the material was designed to repel water, and did little in the way of drying his palms.

Nearly there. He’d already begun to veer off-course, subtly enough to make them think it was because of bad weather, but as soon as he switched off the transponder — that thought would balloon into suspicion, and the eventual realization that he had no intention of landing at the mine.

Bodhi hadn’t thought about it in detail, but he wished he had the cargo with him. It would be easy to drop somewhere it wouldn’t be found, simultaneously providing enough of a deterrent in case he was discovered. Maybe the precious crystals would be enough to delay their armed response — the weapon was too important, after all. The whole of the German army was being more careful these days, careful against losing planes they couldn’t build fast enough, much less a strange new fuel that would make the difference between an ace card to play and a useless hand.

Either way, it was too late now.

The machine beeped. If Bodhi’s calculations weren’t mistaken, he’d just passed into the Rhone-Alpes area, which put him maybe less than half an hour from the nearest city. He’d have to land before that, or risk German planes responding if their watches on the ground reported a rogue plane. But that was only the beginning of the problems, if he had to touch down somewhere big enough for the plane _and_ make sure it was within hiking distance of a place where he might find transport, maybe a way to slip Saul Guerra’s name to a friendly face.

_No, wrong._ What was he thinking? Gestapo agents. He couldn’t be sure of who to trust. Better to find the city, scrape by with his stiff, overly formal French, maybe see how much he could learn as a civilian.

The tape, he’d already extracted from the seat and shoved into his boot, keeping the reel safe in its waterproof casing. Bodhi kept one eye on the controls while he unhooked another secret compartment in his plane, fishing out a leather satchel with a set of forged identity papers and looping it across his torso to keep it secure. Galen clearly had some experience with the art, producing papers that gave Bodhi a new name, a new identity, new occupation. Not a pilot anymore, but (ironically enough) a miner. Enough to explain his grubby appearance and hopefully get him far enough as a city.

Bodhi winced at a sudden whine of static. Someone was hailing him in brusque German.

“Pilot, you are flying in restricted airspace,” said the voice. “Identify yourself.”

Judging by the interference on the channel, Bodhi guessed that it was from a nearby pilot, rather than a radio tower.

“Pilot, you have three clicks to respond, or I will open fire.”

Bodhi’s cargo plane was armed out of necessity, but he hadn’t had much call to use the wingtip guns before, apart from the purely theoretical training. He shot the controls a glance now, calculating the risks.

“Two clicks, pilot. You will be considered an enemy aircraft, and treated accordingly.”

Bodhi lunged for the switch and flicked the radio on. “Sorry, sorry — I’m here,” he stammered. “Radio wasn’t working properly. Bad — bad weather.”

“Identify yourself, pilot.”

“This is Pilot Hahn,” Bodhi lied. “Cargo unit 121H. I’m meant to be picking up cargo in Pontgibaud.”

“What is your cargo, pilot?”

“That’s — ah — a classified shipment. Sorry.”

A pause, while a bead of sweat made its way down the side of Bodhi’s face. “Which base did you come from?”

“That’s also classified,” Bodhi answered, hoping to brazen it out.

The pause stretched on and on, and Bodhi realized — too late — what it meant. He hauled at steering just in time, avoiding a snaking line of anti-aircraft gunfire that streaked like burning arrows into the clouds.

“Wait!” Bodhi shouted into the radio. “I’m on your side!”

No response, and a final _hiss_ of static. Bodhi cursed, banging his fist into the panel, but it was too late, too late to take it back. The fighter plane was firing on him now, and it was taking everything he had to avoid the rapid onslaught of a lighter, better-equipped aircraft catching up with his slower cargo unit.

He plunged below cloud cover with the plane in pursuit. There were lights in the distance, maybe a village — or a city — he couldn’t tell. Smoke obscured the screen, blurring the expanse into murky shadow and flashes of gold — lights or gunfire rounds, he couldn’t tell.

It couldn’t end like this. He hadn’t even brought them the message, not even close. He couldn’t fail Galen like this.

There was an almighty crash, and a fire erupted from the side. One of the wings was alit, and Bodhi cursed again, looking around. Running out of time, and only bad and less-bad options to choose from.

_Parachute._

Bodhi pulled the straps across his satchel and buckled them one-handedly, the other still trying to steer the failing plane from a fatal crash. He yanked the goggles down to protect his eyes, shoving away the thought that he’d only parachuted in training, and not well at that. They’d laughed at him, calling him an octopus because of the way he’d flailed, his mind wiped clear in a panic. Parachutes weren’t flying — not the kind he liked — there was no way to rise higher, it was only slowing the fatal hurtle towards the earth.

But he didn’t have a choice, no choice, and Galen’s message couldn’t die with him.

Bodhi couldn’t let go of the controls, or the plane would go into a nosedive. He needed it to stay level, losing altitude, but steadily enough for him to try to jump. The only thing he had was his belt, and he yanked it free, twisting it through and around steering to make sure it was held in place.

The walls were groaning now, shaking like loose flaps of scrap iron, and Bodhi could feel the heat from the flames close by. He slammed his fist into the switch controlling the cargo doors, and the resulting rush of air almost yanked him straight from the plane and into the open sky. But Bodhi held on, clinging to the back of the rattling pilot’s chair like his life depended on it — because it did — still holding down the button.

There was a shriek of protesting metal, and he realized that the doors had stopped halfway, because of something — debris, probably — jamming them in place.

Bodhi was now more or less certain that someone wanted him dead. The thought was enough to freeze him in fear ( _always,_ fear), but he could sense the ground rushing closer, and the death knell of a plane that was about to crash, hard, so he gathered the scraps of courage he had left, stared hard at the patch of sky showing through the half-blocked entrance.

Then, he ran.

He ran towards the open air, letting the escaping currents tear him towards the entrance, until his boots left the shuddering metal and he was suddenly, unexpectedly, falling.

Bodhi couldn’t recall if he’d screamed, but everything went dark for a second, and when he opened his eyes, he was hurtling towards a cover of dense trees, sinking like a stone through the air. Loose straps and strings were flying everywhere, and in a moment of blind panic, Bodhi thought he’d lost the cord, until his numbed fingers found the hook, and _yanked_.

The parachute exploded with enough force to jerk him upright, ballooning in the wind and completely at its mercy. The planes tore over him, one trailing fire and smoke, the other in hot pursuit, and he realized he hadn’t been seen, a moment that was enough to make him want to _whoop_ , but the breath hit his throat like a stinging punch and he twisted mid-air, coughing as the smoke found its way into his lungs.

The wind was pushing him too fast to make more than a perfunctory attempt at directionality, and Bodhi only managed to catch a glimpse of the orange lights in the distance before the first tree forced him to twist. He’d misjudged the distance to the field, swung too close to the forest. But he couldn’t pull himself back up, and when another tree caught him, and he heard the sharp _rip_ of the silk parachute tearing.

The cords snagged him around the chest then, and Bodhi was falling through the trees, one arm raised to protect his eyes, while the other clutched blindly at the air, to maybe grasp at anything, anything that might save him

The tangle of branches suddenly gave way to open air, and Bodhi unsnapped the parachute just in time for him to avoid being strangled by the cords.

But he’d lost his only buffer, and hit the muddy grass with a thud and a single sharp jolt that ran up his leg, proceeding to fall the rest of the way. He rolled down the small slope, hitting stone and fallen branches and whatever there was to hit him _with_ , until finally — he slammed into something solid that turned his vision black.

* * *

Bodhi didn’t know how long he’d been out before he came to, blinking up at the blurred sky until it cleared. The goggles were askew on his face, which hurt — as a matter of dim observation — _a lot_. Bodhi raised his arm groggily to push the goggles back up onto his forehead, relieved to know that he still could move his arm, which seemed like a blessing after the landing he’d just scraped through.

The movement made his head swim, and Bodhi dropped back onto the grass again. Smoke rose in plumes towards the sky from a fire close by, thick, copious fumes that could only come from airplane fuel and an unmanned crash. Bodhi’s ears were ringing and he was relatively sure that he’d hurt his ankle, slightly more than the rest of his aching body, but he grinned stupidly up at the sky, adrenaline rushing in his veins. He felt like a boy again, more than he had in years, like he’d been dared to do something and now felt like a king because he’d pulled it off.

He laughed, he dared to laugh, and was still struggling to sit up when the first shadowy figure appeared.

Rough hands grabbed him around the shoulders and hauled him onto his feet. Bodhi winced when his right ankle ached, sharp and insistent, his childish euphoria fading at the reminder that he was in dangerous territory. Even worse, a shallow wave of panic crashed over him at the realization that he was still wearing his German flight suit, not having the time to switch to civilian clothes, and to these strangers, these faceless men, he’d look unquestionably like the enemy.

But maybe — maybe that was good. German soldiers would have used torches, unafraid of being spotted. The only people who’d work in darkness were those who didn’t want to be noticed. As a matter of instinct, Bodhi had a feeling he knew who he’d stumbled into.

“ _At-attends — je ne—_ wait!” he said, tripping over his French in a panic. “I’m — I’m a friend.”

Someone spat, and the hand at the back of Bodhi’s suit jerked him roughly, making his ankle twinge all over again.

“I have a message for Saul Guerra,” Bodhi said, in a rush. “He needs to hear it.”

There was a rumble of derisive laughter, and Bodhi felt something sharp — a knife tip — slice at the already-ripped _swastika_ band around his sleeve. “Your uniform already has a message for him. _Pig for the slaughter_.”

A chill froze Bodhi’s spine. Weren’t they — these men — weren’t they supposed to be good people? He’d always had a picture in his mind of the righteous resistance fighter — like the Robin Hood stories he’d read as a boy — fighting for the downtrodden, living in the woods like carefree, adventurous strangers.

Nothing righteous about them now. All Bodhi could sense was hate, and that he was about to die.

“N-no,” Bodhi almost slipped back into his German from the shock. “No, I’m not lying. I’m a friend — I defected — but I have a message for Guerra. It’s from Galen Erso!”

“ _Stop_ ,” came the order, and Bodhi knew he’d said the right thing. “Erso? The scientist?”

“Yes — that’s him!” Bodhi said, and the knife withdrew. “Will you — will you take me to Guerra?”

The derision seemed to return at his question, and someone slammed Bodhi roughly around the ribs, making him hunch over. A bag descended over his head, and they yanked him back like he was a mannequin, something inanimate that deserved the bare minimum of concern.

“Careful what you wish for, _boy_ ,” one of them said, and Bodhi wondered what he’d done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn’t expecting to only write Bodhi’s side of it, but I couldn’t resist. This kid has a way of demanding special care. But incidentally, Saul Guerra's people are not going to be nice to him.


	21. Convergence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Bit of an understatement to say that I'm late with this chapter. School and a bad patch of writer's block hit me in the face, so I took a break from writing, and it took me some time on top of that to get the thread of the story back.  
> I have no idea what cleared the block, but I started writing again because I just got a really vivid flash about the ending for this story, and I kind of want to get there :)  
> I'm working at a pro bono legal clinic for the summer and stuff gets busy, so the fastest I can promise is an update once a week. Hope that people are still around to bear with me, and if you are, enjoy!
> 
> (Quick recap: It's 1943, Bodhi's been captured by Saul Guerra's guys, Jyn and Cassian are pining for each other while doing their own mission stuff, and...yeah...that's about it? :D)

Bodhi flinched at the sound of a door opening. He had no idea where he was, no sense of time or place. Hours might have passed. Maybe even days. No one had beaten him, the hated German pilot. He’d expected worse, from the moment the razor knife edge had been drawn, cutting through the uniform to find his skin. But apart from the throbbing cut in his arm and the ankle he’d most likely sprained during the botched parachute landing, they’d left him in a cell. Thrown him there to await judgment, for crimes Bodhi in good conscience couldn’t distance himself from, not when he’d worn their uniform and flown their planes.

Such was his introduction to the Resistance, Saul Guerra’s rebellion.

The walls were smooth, cool stone, a relief from the boiling summer heat at first — unheard of in the remote glacial mountains he’d come from — though the relief had been short-lived, when the sweat chilled on Bodhi’s skin and he began to shiver.

They had to be below ground, somewhere hidden. He imagined a crypt, a crypt full of dead things, bones slowly turning to dust, skeletons with gaping eyes and grotesque smiles. Bodhi shivered, pushing his face into his knees. He smelled awful, mud and sweat and fear, but it was better than imagining bony white fingers reaching for him in the dark.

The bag had been taken from his head as soon as he’d been pushed into the cell, the door slammed, but the darkness was so absolute that Bodhi still had to crawl to find the door. His knuckles felt raw, bruised and swollen, and he raised them to the metal panels, knocking a familiar, mindless rhythm.

“I have a message for Saul Guerra,” he said, and his free hand — as it always did — inched towards the tape he kept underneath his uniform, next to his hammering heart. “Please. It’s urgent. Galen Erso sent me. Saul Guerra needs to know. _Please_ …”

And on it went, until Bodhi stumbled over the French words and his voice became a croak, hurting him when he tried to go on.

In the end, it was just:

“ _Please_.”

* * *

Cassian was late. Routes in and out of France — especially the ones that didn’t attract Gestapo attention — were narrowing, and he’d only just managed to slip through a checkpoint with forged papers after making up a story and leaving a falsified address for a follow-up.

He was waiting on the steps before the train even pulled into Gare du Nord, and he jumped onto the platform as soon as the doors opened, forging ahead into the rushing steam and general chaos of the central station, hurrying to be on his way. He walked with his eyes straight ahead, treading the fine line between looking like he was trying to avoid notice and not wasting any more time than reasonably necessary.

He was supposed to be on a plane back to London in a matter of hours — this was just one more meeting he hadn’t intended to take.

But it was imperative he did, because it concerned information on the goings-on of the Guerra network. They’d planted informants in the faction soon after the unification, and it had paid off in less than a year, when Guerra began to show signs of distancing himself again, making decisions without consultation, decisions that turned more on shows of aggression than substance, though never quite disobeying his orders, not really.

The more he dealt with Guerra, the more Cassian realized that there was something more honest about someone like Jyn, who showed every sign of being aware of her orders but disobeyed them outright, rather than Guerra’s tendency to play deaf and dumb when it came to directives he disagreed with.

Cassian stepped out into a haze of light rain and wound his way through the tangle of Paris backstreets, thinking about the impending meeting. It was one of his informants, Trivett, someone he’d chosen because of his unique combination of incongruity and innate fearfulness, qualities that made him an ideal source of insider information, while simultaneously susceptible to being manipulated. It had taken only a short while for Cassian to figure out a strategy, to play on Trivett’s doubts that being a part of Guerra’s faction was more reward than risk, given the constants of being on the run and liable to die at a moment’s notice, for a fight that was more one man’s battle than a world war. There was contempt in his meetings with Trivett, something he was hard-pressed to mask, but Cassian’s job was to find pressure points, weaknesses and cracks in the shell that he could exploit. If weak armor fractured beneath his fingers, it wasn’t his fault.

Everyone rose and fell on their own strengths.

The thought exhausted him more than he cared to admit, because Cassian was starting to realize that he was never without it. The tiredness. A sensation he’d heard about from other operatives, something he’d been trained to notice as someone in recruitment. The signs that someone was spent beyond repair, beyond rest, beyond respite.

A hollow, empty case.

Useless. More burden than asset.

But Cassian had to press on, and on, and on, until the war was over. That was all he wanted, all he had his sights on. The end of this bloody, exhausting war, then anything was possible. He could stop, he could rest, he could continue, or he could vanish. They wouldn’t need him anymore, and Cassian had sacrificed too much to think he owed them anything else.

Blood. Nearly a lifetime now.

A chance — however foolish it might have been — of happiness. Of true, genuine hope.

Jyn Erso had crossed paths with him because of the war, but they’d been pulled apart by that very same cause, and sometimes the cost seemed greater and greater, to the point that he wondered if he’d made the right choice at all.

Too late. Too late now.

Cassian was at the place now, a smoky, dank bar located between two brothels. Meetings here were quick, and difficult to overhear. More importantly, it was the kind of place where the customers themselves tended to draw less attention than other more important concerns.

Trivett was nowhere to be seen. Cassian searched the tables first, then the bar. He didn’t know anyone well enough to ask, and he didn’t want to take the risk. If Trivett had been arrested — and given that he knew to wait, no matter how delayed Cassian was — asking questions would be tantamount to sending up an alert to any secret police.

Cassian was just winding his way back near the edge of the walls when someone grabbed him by the arm, pulling him behind a curtain. The gun was in his hand and pressed to the stranger’s throat in a matter of seconds, notched at the site of the carotid artery. It was risky, but the silencer against the deafening music and general din meant that it was unlikely to raise a panic, at least not until someone found the body.

Cassian only belatedly registered that the grip on his sleeve had loosened, but he didn’t back away.

“Easy there, cowboy,” said a familiar voice. “Don’t you recognize an old friend?”

Cassian hesitated, shifting him — not very gently at all — towards the light. “Han? What the hell are you doing here?”

Han put his forefinger on the gun barrel and pushed it away from his throat, rubbing the spot like he was more concerned about the potential bruise. “You wouldn’t happen to be here for a guy named Trivett, would you?”

Cassian’s gun was pointed at Han again, who rolled his eyes and held up his empty hands. “Relax, Cass, I didn’t give up FDR and Churchill for Schnitzel and Brumhilda,” he said sarcastically. “I’m just playing messenger here. I saw Trivett earlier today when I was taking care of some business, and I don’t think he’s gonna make it. Poor bastard’s got other things to worry about, where he’s at.”

It did stretch credulity to a certain extent, that Han just so happened to have been at the same place and the same time as Cassian’s informant. But given how his encounters with Han seemed to have more to do with inexplicable coincidences than any kind of intentional design, Cassian made a split-second assessment and decided the information was unlikely to be the kind Han could charge for, making it somewhat trustworthy.

Cassian holstered his gun again and shifted the curtain slightly, craning his neck to keep an eye on the rest of the bar. “The Gestapo?” he asked. “When?”

“Not Gestapo,” Han said. “But there’s an argument to be made that getting nabbed by the SS would have been a better deal.”

“Why? What happened?”

Han moved his finger in a circle towards the ceiling. “This place, and the row of reputable establishments in this illustrious area of town — know what they have in common?”

“They’re brothels, everyone knows that.”

“Not just brothels. They’re owned by the local mafia,” he said. “Desilijic just bought up this place, and guess who owed him some money? And when I say _some_ —” he made a clicking noise that left very little to the imagination. “Anyway, Trivett walks in here, thinking he’ll just order some _café noir_ and wait for a friend, when two uglies with scary faces grab him by the back of his coat and well — you get the picture.”

 _Desilijic._ Cassian didn’t have to search long to find out why that name was enough to raise an alert. He’d heard it before. Czechoslovakian, and synonymous with the kind of territory one needed to be excessively careful around. _Milieu_ worked the French underground, carving up power by doing black market business during tough times. Food, goods, and people. Last he’d heard, it was between the Desilijics, the Guerini brothers and the Carbone family, but they killed each other too often for him to be sure.

Cassian swore, shoving the gun back into his belt. “Where did Desilijic take him?”

“You planning to bail him out?” Han said, like it was the stupidest idea he’d ever heard. “I do some smuggling for this guy, and let me tell you, you’d need to be richer than Midas — which I don’t think you are — and you’d also need a really good voodoo guy, because your friend’s probably dead.”

“You don’t kill someone who owes you money,” Cassian said. “Especially not if that person’s affiliated with someone like Saul Guerra. Desilijic has at least two other families to compete with, right? He’ll want an edge over them. Maybe Guerra’s business is the way for him to get it.”

Han sighed, running a hand over his face. “Why do I have a bad feeling about this?”

Cassian smiled darkly. “Because you’re going to get me a meeting with Desilijic. I need to find out what Trivett knows, and worse comes to worse — they can have him once I’m done.”

Han looked doubtfully at Cassian’s hand, still resting lightly on the butt of his gun, and sighed, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. “Between you and her, I’m pretty sure one of you’s gonna get me killed.”

Cassian didn’t have to be a mindreader to guess what Han meant by _her_. He smiled again, brittle and forced. “We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”

But Han wasn’t about to let a point go. “So, heard from her lately?” he asked. “Jyn.”

Cassian peered through the curtain again, more to avoid making eye contact with Han than anything else. “No,” he said. “We’ve both been busy. Avoiding death and capture — that kind of thing.”

Sarcasm seemed to ricochet off Han like he was built for it. “I could pass on a message, you know,” he said, lazily puffing. “Next time I see her.”

Cassian wasn’t entirely surprised that Han had found ways to hover around Jyn over the last two years (his mind made the unfavorable comparison to a pesky fly), but hearing it confirmed was far from pleasant. In fact, it showed every sign of developing into the kind of distraction that wouldn’t help his mission in the least, so he pushed the thought — and all its jealousy-tinged possibilities — back down.

“What’ll it cost?” Cassian said dryly. “If you want my soul, I think I traded mine a long time ago.”

Han snorted. “So that’s a _no_.”

Cassian didn’t answer, but jerked his head towards the main floor. “Desilijic, now. Lead the way.”

Han paused before he left the alcove and turned back. “Some friendly advice. When you meet him — try not to stare,” he said, cryptically. “He doesn’t like that too much.”

* * *

A fight was breaking out somewhere in the hall. Cassian sidestepped to avoid the jagged remains of a shattered glass, along with an eerie-looking stain that bore a certain resemblance to blood, seeping dark into the floorboards. Dancers twirled on circular raised platforms, music from the band blasting loud and carelessly enough to make him wince. There was a singer on a golden stage, her bare arms glittering with some kind of gold dust as she sang to the drunken patrons. Waitresses brushed past with smiles and whispers that sent cold shivers up his neck, while a woman somewhere laughed, high and shrill.

“Very nice,” Cassian said tonelessly.

“Feels like Ancient Rome, doesn't it?” Han said. He seemed to be a regular, given how the stone-faced guards stationed at the door had let him and Cassian in without a word.

There were German uniforms scattered here and there, but they seemed too far gone to care.

“Where’s Desilijic?” Cassian asked.

Han used his head to indicate somewhere further in. “He’s usually in the backroom, but Wednesday nights are when he likes to observe his business. Best table in the house.”

“And what kind of smuggling do you help him with?” Cassian asked, because even he could tell that Desilijic wasn’t the type of enterprising individual to draw the line at goods when it came to illegal movements.

Han looked nonchalant. “It’s mostly food — tobacco, liquor — black market stuff, you know. Smuggling people pays better, but they’re also harder to drop out the bay doors when a German plane wants to get up close and personal. I think I might have smuggled some art for him once, some kind collection that belonged to a Jewish dealer. Why? Thought I helped him something else?”

“You’re a practical person,” Cassian answered. “It wouldn’t be impractical to get involved with other aspects of the business.”

“Why do I have a feeling that’s not a compliment?”

Cassian stopped Han before the drunken brawlers could barrel headlong into him. The pair spilled onto the greasy-looking floor, but contrary to the usual practice of throwing them out, the crowd seemed to enjoy it. There were bets already being thrown out when they walked further into the hall.

Savage, and hungry. That was what Cassian sensed, in the air like the scent of blood, and that was what made him wary.

“Jabba,” Han said suddenly, and Cassian looked around. “Long time no see.”

It took Cassian a delayed second to remember what Han had warned him about not staring, and he hastily pulled his gaze elsewhere. Because Desilijic — who Han had called _Jabba_ , some kind of nickname, clearly — was…grotesque.

He looked closer to a slug than anything Cassian thought was humanly possible, squat and paunchy, with eyes surrounded with puffy yellowed flesh, narrowed and bloodshot. Desilijic was in a pouffe set at a distance from the noise, but with full view of the stage and band, and he reclined, sunken into the velvet seat, draped on either side by a pair of young, pretty girls who were either blind or paid very well not to notice what they were cooing and giggling over.

There was a cigar between his stubby fingers, and he surveyed them through the strong-smelling smoke. “Han, my boy,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again. And your…friend.”

Cassian felt an unpleasant urge to draw his weapon when Desilijic’s gaze alighted on him, appraising, in a way that suggested he was calculating Cassian’s worth in parts.

“Apologies for the interruption, Jabba, but my friend Cassian has a curiosity. He’s a bounty hunter, you know —”

Cassian glanced sidelong at Han, because they hadn’t discussed lying about his identity. But he was inclined to believe Han had a reason for fabricating a story, given how Desilijic looked like he held no qualms against exploiting anything and everything, alive or dead.

“—and he had a collection to make off someone you saw, earlier today. Trivett, little Frenchman, very shifty. Owes his boss a lot of cash. Any chance Cassian could get a word with him? Formality, you know.”

Desilijic gave a wheezy sort of chuckle. “Han, my dear boy, I’d do anything for you — but I couldn’t for this, not even if I wanted to.”

There was a sinking feeling in Cassian’s gut.

“He died,” Desilijic said, looking right at Cassian. “Shortly after we began asking our questions. He had a…weak heart. The strain was simply too much.”

“You don’t say,” Han said, and he didn’t sound surprised at all. Cassian ignored the _I told you so_ in his glance.

“Did he say anything?” Cassian asked, and Desilijic’s eyes settled on him again, slow and greedy, like a toad’s.

“Nothing of use,” he answered. “I don’t think there’s money to be had off Monsieur Trivett. He was — ah — _bled_ _dry_ long before we got to him.”

“Well, we won’t take up anymore of your time, then.” Han began to step back, and Cassian followed his lead.

“He did mention something,” Desilijic said, and blew smoke between his yellowed teeth. “A name.”

Cassian turned.

“He was one of Saul Guerra’s, did you know?” Desilijic didn’t seem to be asking, not really. “He mentioned something very interesting. That the faction had recently come into possession of an oddity. A defector pilot, German. Crashed somewhere near Lyon.”

“That’s not uncommon,” Cassian said. “Defectors try to switch sides all the time.”

There was a note of challenge in Cassian’s voice, and Desiljic smiled, a cold and reptilian smile. “I agree,” he said. “But this one said he had a message, that he’d been sent by a man named — ah, what was it? — Galen. Galen Erso. Seemed to make the old man Guerra nearly wild with rage. A sore spot, it seems.”

Cassian was very, very still. Even Han seemed to be listening more intently than usual, alerted no doubt by the last name _Erso_ , even if Jyn hadn’t told him about her father.

“Trivett was trying to bargain with his life for the information, though I don’t imagine how that would be of help to anyone,” Desilijic continued, as though he couldn’t see how he had two interested parties listening to his every word. “Han, I’ll be expecting you next month for my shipment, yes?”

“Yes, sir,” Han said, after a pause that showed he’d been distracted. “We’ll be going now. Thanks for your time.”

“And Cassian,” Desilijic said, before he could leave. “I’m always interested in the services of a good bounty hunter.”

Cassian inclined his head. “I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”

Desilijic merely nodded, and smoke swirled to cover him again. Han grabbed Cassian by the arm and all but marched him towards the exit. “Erso?” he said in a hiss. “That’s what this is about? Jyn’s father?”

“I can’t tell you anything,” Cassian said. “Not unless you’re planning on finally accepting that offer to join up — otherwise I’ll have to shoot you.”

“Hey,” Han said, looking as serious as Cassian had ever seen him. He was a tall man, and he’d stopped Cassian in his tracks with a tight grip on his arm, contrary to his usual languid posturing.

Cassian stared at him with a gaze calculated to deflect emotion, and waited to hear it, whatever words the smuggler could conjure from a sense of false bravado — or genuine protectiveness, he wasn’t sure.

“Don’t hurt her,” Han said, his words slow and careful. “Whatever’s going on with her father, don’t you hurt Jyn, all right?”

This, coming from a casual stranger who flitted in and out of other people’s lives without a care in the world. Cassian felt the resentment rise to his throat, a feeling amplified by what he unwillingly acknowledged as guilt. The salient issue, the one bridge he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to cross when it came to Jyn.

It was an effort not to jerk himself away, and violently, but Cassian shrugged his shoulder — cold, impersonal — free of Han’s grip. “I’m not taking advice from you.”

The contempt, however calculated, seemed to bounce off Han’s determination to get an answer out of him.

“Hey, I’ve been the one checking in on her for the last two years. I get some leeway to give advice,” Han snapped back. “And I’m not warning you because Jyn’s the type to get weepy. I’m warning you because if someone harms so much as a hair on her dad’s head — she’ll kill you herself, and it won’t be pretty.”

“Noted,” Cassian said flatly. “Now I have to go.”

Han stared at him for a long moment without speaking, and Cassian — usually adept at reading him like a book — couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

In one of his rare moments of unsmiling sincerity, Han shook his head and reached for another cigarette. “Pleasure doing business with you, Captain.”

* * *

The war in France was going poorly. Nothing convinced Cassian more than what he saw at HQ, just an hour after touching down in a plane that had narrowly escaped being shot down by a German patrol.

The portrait-lined and carpeted corridors of the Baker Street building, meant for distinguished visitors and hushed voices, were in an uproar. Cassian had to sidestep to avoid bowling into a row of arguing officers, each brandishing files and papers with undecipherable meanings to anyone without the right code. Looking to his side, Kay wore a disapproving scowl at the sight of everyone more or less losing their heads, but they didn’t have the time to stop.

That was what Cassian told himself, to keep going. Not to search the dozens of unfamiliar faces they passed, or glance through the open doors and hesitate at the sight of someone with their back turned, one of the wireless operators, just because she had dark hair and a small build that looked like —

No. Keep moving. Now, more than ever.

Every door seemed to house some kind of disagreement, some kind of small panic, hardly reassuring sights Cassian wanted to relay to the others, the other agents far from home and keen for good news. Better that they imagined that Britain was slowly, surely, winning the war. Not fighting by the inch for what gains they’d amassed over two years, and facing the collapse of their Resistance networks in France.

They took the stairs further down, where the walls changed from dark wood to slate-colored concrete. There were soldiers posted at the pair of bomb-resistant doors, and Cassian — out of uniform — showed his identification papers one more time before they let him in with a salute.

It was still chaos, but of a different kind. The room was darker, lit by rows of electrical lights that ran the length of the room from one wall to the next. He could hear the electrical _tap-tap_ of radios and signalers working through a half-open door, the flutter of pages and intercepted messages being passed along, the low-voiced debates kept tightly under control at the heart of espionage command.

They’d also walked into something of a council session. Cassian spotted Mothma first, white as snow in her usual manner of dress, her flame-colored hair as bright as a beacon in the dim light. She and Draven were on opposite sides of a long table, with equally squabbling council members in between. Generals in military uniform, cabinet ministers in crisp suits, and others whose jobs involved secrecy and deception beyond even his clearance.

Draven looked up, saw them, and gestured briskly for them to walk forward. “There they are.” He motioned for the table to be cleared, and Cassian glimpsed, before they were whisked out of sight, what looked like a map of the French coastline, marked as if in preparation for supply drops — or a landing.

Along with the map went several of those assembled around the table, shrinking the number to eight. They were familiar faces by now, Council members that Cassian regularly made his reports to, laying out the information by which they decided who lived or died.

He and Kay saluted, and Draven nodded. He might have smiled in greeting, but the lines in his face were etched too deeply for Cassian to tell. Besides, he was a to-the-point man by nature, and pleasantries were — at best — extraneous to the work that needed to be carried out. “I heard about the skirmish. Must have been quite the flight.”

It didn’t surprise him that HQ already knew of the near-miss with the plane.

“Yes sir,” Kay said briskly. “God bless the RAF.”

There was a murmur of assent among those present. Mothma inclined her head in welcome. “Gentlemen. I assume you’ve all read Captain Andor’s report. I believe it represents a fresh development in the Erso matter, and with the Council’s assent — I ask that Captain Andor and Major Kay be sent to follow up on the matter with Guerra himself.”

“Guerra’s mad,” one of them muttered skeptically. “attacking junk shipments to Germany head-on and wasting good men. De Gaulle’s nearly at his wit’s end with him, and so am I.”

Mothma was too gracious to acknowledge the point, but Draven did. “I’ll admit that General Guerra has been somewhat limited in his contribution beyond slaughtering Nazis," he said. "But this information comes from one of the informants we cultivated within the faction.”

“Only it didn’t come from the informant, did it?” said a new voice.

Cassian looked to Mothma’s side of the table. To her right, nearly all in shadow, was a man he’d seen only sparingly, around HQ, in Council. He stepped forward now, tall, with a neatly trimmed dark beard, and always with the same silver pin on his lapel.

Judging by his accent, American.

“This is Secretary Organa, gentlemen,” Mothma said, interpreting Cassian’s hesitation. “Our liaison with the United States in matters regarding the Special Operations Executive.”

Organa nodded his head, still looking at Cassian. “Your information, it came from a Desilijic — French underground.”

“Not just a Desilijic. Head of the clan,” Cassian confirmed. “Trivett tried to sell him the information before he died. Desilijic does black market business, but he’s not affiliated with the Gestapo, nor would the name Galen Erso be of particular use to him. He was the one who brought up Erso, not me. I believe he would have no reason to lie.”

Draven nodded. “All right. I think Captain Andor’s made his point. The information seems trustworthy. With regards to the German defector you mentioned — the pilot — we did some follow-up.”

Mothma took over from there. “I must caveat this with a reminder that all of it remains guesswork,” she said, looking around the table. “But we’ve managed to intercept German army communications regarding the defection. They corroborate our suspicions that there indeed was a successful attempt to flee.”

“What does that matter to us?” asked one of the council members. “A _Wehrmacht_ pilot makes little difference, whether or not he claims that Erso sent him. It might have been a ploy to save his own skin.”

“Precisely the question we asked,” Mothma answered, with a nod. “Why would the defection of one ordinary pilot make its way through German channels all over France? Why would _one_ pilot be important enough for the military command to enlist the help of all available units in his capture and return?”

“Where did he come from?” Kay asked.

Draven shook his head. “They didn’t say. My guess is somewhere they’d rather not anyone else know about — some classified location. But if they’re pursuing him, it means there’s something of importance in this pilot’s message, the one he wanted relayed to Guerra.”

Cassian sensed bad news coming.

“Why can’t Guerra transmit the message to us?” Organa asked.

A muscle in Draven’s cheek twitched, and he bore a similar expression to the one he had regarding all matters relating to Jyn. Aggravations, and persistent ones. “We’ve hit something of a dead end with him, Secretary,” he said. “He’s cut communications with De Gaulle and the rest of F-section since he moved into Lyon. Our resistance circuit was recently rounded up there, and we haven’t yet had the time to re-establish it. With Guerra on a communications blackout and no local circuit to make the relay, we’ll have to send someone there ourselves, and soon.”

“It _is_ a substantial risk,” Mothma said, as though she’d read the minds of everyone in the room. “The Gestapo have a considerable network of informants, and we have no way of knowing the extent our circuits have been compromised, not until it’s too late. But I’m afraid it’s a risk we’ll have to take. The war for France may well be fought with troops on the ground, but it’ll have to be won with intelligence. We need to know what this pilot has from Galen Erso that makes him so important. As you well know, Officer Erso is believed to have had a hand in the Châteaubriant incident. This message of his might indeed be information concerning the whereabouts of that weapon.”

“Captain, you and the Major are the ones who’ve been tracing this… _super-weapon_ , correct?” said the Secretary.

Cassian nodded.

“Why haven't they used it?” he asked, not maliciously. With an air of a man running through each possibility before making his final conclusion. “They could have taken Stalingrad. They could have wiped out the entire Red Army. Why sit on something as destructive as that?”

Cassian glanced at Kay, who nodded. “Galen Erso is the key to answering those questions.”

“I see.” Organa exchanged a look with Mothma. “Sounds to me like we’ll need something like a secret weapon of our own. Guerra’s being difficult, you say? Who was the one who convinced him to cooperate the last time?”

“That would be Miss Erso,” Kay said, delicately. “Though I believe it’s Lieutenant Erso now, isn’t it?”

Draven paused, giving them a hard stare. “What’s your point, Major? Erso’s been put to good use where she is, and I intend to keep it that way.”

“With all due respect, General,” said Organa, “but with a mission as important as this, I don’t think it would be wise to take away a key component of the last one’s success. Not with so much at stake. Therefore, I move that Lieutenant Erso be reassigned to the team.”

“Absolutely _not_ ,” Draven said. “She’s unreliable.”

“She’s done remarkably well in the north for us,” Mothma reminded him. “The Renegade circuit remains one of the few the Gestapo have yet to infiltrate.”

Draven’s voice had taken on a new, harsher note. “Need I remind all of you that the mission involves her father? What if it becomes expedient to terminate him? Do you think she’d stand by and watch that happen?”

No one flinched, even when he practically snarled the words at them.

“Right now the focus is Guerra,” Cassian said, finally. “If he’s gone back to his old ways, we’ll need Jyn to bring him over again. Frankly, she might be the only thing that won’t get us shot as soon as we try to get through the door.”

“That’s quite enough, Captain Andor,” Draven snapped. “Quite enough.”

Cassian could read the room, sense the tension drawing tight like a wire about to snap. Mothma was on his side, the Secretary too. Draven was not. His instincts were unfailingly cautious, warning him to stay silent, that Draven wasn’t to be pushed, not here.

But Cassian had come from France with traitors’ blood on his hands, looked into the eyes of unrepentant collaborators and heard the screams from the Gestapo prisons as he tried — for someone else’s sake — to find the means to give the network’s captured agents an easy way out. Closing his eyes at night and not sleeping, not really, not in the way that could wipe away the bone-aching, uncompromising _exhaustion_ that permeated his muscles and weighed on him like invisible stones, dragging him deeper and deeper into the dark water.

Cassian was tired, the war was going badly, and he was done wasting time.

“It’s been almost two years,” he said, ignoring Kay’s warning hiss. “You sent the Major and I to discover what we could about the weapon. Since then, we’ve hit wall after wall, blockade after blockade, and now we’re about to lose what agents we have left in France because we’re stretched thin. Guerra was never going to trust us completely, and if he has information about Galen Erso, he won’t hand it over. He knows there’s nothing standing in the way of us killing his old friend, and he won’t let that happen.”

“You are treading _dangerously_ close to insubordination, Captain Andor,” Draven warned. “Don’t —”

“So dismiss me.” Cassian maintained a straight gaze, not insolent, not belligerent. But making his point. “Assign the case to someone else. But I’m right. We’ve tried doing it without Jyn Erso. We need her for Guerra, and we need her to find her father.”

Mothma spoke up at last. “Captain, you admitted that if the mission goes against Galen Erso’s survival, you wouldn’t —”

“I’ve executed thirty-one double agents since then,” Cassian said, “and seen more of ours sent to the camps. I’ll do what it takes to end the war.”

There was a strange falling sensation in his midriff as he said it, and even Cassian wasn’t sure how much he meant. Still, his voice came out hard, uncompromisingly steely, and Mothma looked to Draven with a nod. “I agree, General.”

Draven looked incredulously from Mothma to Kay, as though he’d lost one steadfast support in his schemes. “Has he gone mad?” he demanded.

Kay’s expression didn’t change. “Contrary to Prime Minister Churchill’s speeches, we are _not_ winning the war, and I for one would prefer to hear something true on the wireless for a change. If Miss Erso joins us, there’s a forty-two percent chance of chaos. That’s compared to the eight-eight percent I predicted when she was first recruited, and a thoroughly stellar improvement, sir.”

Draven stared at the Major like it was the first time they’d met.

“I think we ought to vote,” Mothma said, with nearly a smile. “If the mission is approved, the objective will be two-fold. One, to discover the precise nature of the defector’s message. Two, to ascertain Galen Erso’s location and status of the weapon, and — if possible — return him to headquarters for a debriefing. Furthermore, Lieutenant Jyn Erso will be reassigned to Captain Cassian Andor’s command, and it will be his task to supervise the extent of her involvement. Those in favor?”

Organa was one of the first to raise his hand. Cassian swept the room — more than half were supporting them.

Mothma knew it too. “Those against?”

Draven and another.

“Well then,” said Mothma, and Cassian could tell she was trying not to smile. “Captain, Major, you’ll be dropped to the north of France to make contact with Miss Erso, who currently remains stationed in Saint-Quentin, and you will then travel south to Lyon and engage Saul Guerra for the mission objective. Report to the airfield by nightfall, and may god be with you.”

There was approval in her tone, and she gave Cassian a small nod. He saluted her, and the increasingly livid-looking Draven, standing there until the rest of the council had dispersed. Secretary Organa and Mothma walked a short distance away, talking in low voices, but Draven lingered.

Cassian waited. Kay was a short distance away by the door, in a hurry to be going. He was also eyeing Draven with an exceedingly wary air, conscious that their superior was likely to be happy about the recent development.

“Mothma and the Secretary may think that there’s going to be an extraction, but there will not, do you understand me?” Draven said, in a tone nothing shy of dangerous. “If the weapon hasn’t been used, it means it hasn’t been finished, and Galen Erso will not live to complete it. You find him, you kill him. The Erso girl won’t get in your way, or I’ll have the three of you — the Major included — pulled back for a court-martial and a sentence of treason. Are we clear, Captain?”

Cassian wondered if he hated Draven, or what he stood for. The dirty, shadowy side of the war that would never see the light of day. Or maybe what Cassian could become, if the deep-seated exhaustion continued to twist its way into his bones, infecting him with a view of the world that was invariably filled with more foes than friends.

“Clear, sir,” he answered, forcing the words through his teeth.

The General nodded in dismissal. “Godspeed.”

* * *

“Can anybody hear me?” Bodhi rasped. There was a chipped cup in the corner, empty of water, along with a wedge of bread that tasted of dust. “Please. _Please_. I’m not lying — I have a message. Saul Guerra needs to hear the message. Galen — Galen Erso —”

The words caught in Bodhi’s throat, and he hunched over, coughing, trying to free his voice. No use. Days might have passed by now, sitting in this darkness, kept alive like an animal in a cage, with no sign that anyone was listening at all.

Why would they?

Animals didn’t speak.

Bodhi felt tears squeeze themselves from the corner of his eyes, trickling down the side of his face, hot as shame. _I’m sorry, Galen_. He hunched over, burying his face in the mud-dried knees of his uniform, his damned, hated uniform, going through all the things he might have done but didn’t to ensure that his mission hadn’t failed.

He should have flown lower to avoid detection.

He should have switched off his transponder sooner.

He should have lied better on the radio.

He should have swallowed his fear instead of letting it take over.

He should have convinced Galen to come with him. People listened to Galen. They heard his voice, his calm voice that remained utterly sure of what it wanted to convey, logic and emotion, reason and impetus.

Bodhi was just a poor substitute, a messenger who couldn’t even do the one thing he was meant to. Nobody heard him. Not his voice. Mute. Useless.

Snot was running down his face now, and Bodhi wiped his eyes, his mouth, pushing his hand against his head while he thought. The smooth leather straps of the goggles were reassuring, as reassuring as the ones nearly worn to pieces from his old pair. They’d let him keep it, confiscating only the satchel.

Bodhi felt for the hidden compartment, the minute crack between the metal, not daring to open it in case he lost the crystal, the only precious fragment Galen said would bring him luck.

It probably had, but Bodhi was the one who’d dragged any good fortune he might have had into the gutter, the flaming wreckage of his cargo plane, somewhere in a forest in France.

Bodhi turned again, hitting the bottom of his fist against the unmoving door. He couldn’t fail Galen now, not again.

“ _Please!_ ” he shouted, this time in English, and the door flew open.

He sprawled onto his elbows, blinking in the sudden blaze of blinding — _painful_ — light, and it was almost a mercy when the bag dropped to hide his face again, and unseen hands yanked him roughly to his feet. His ankle ached, strong and insistent, when it tried to bear his weight, and he was forced to limp in order to stop it from giving out.

Bodhi felt like his legs were rebelling, moving independent of his body, and stumbled along.

 _Where is Saul Guerra?_ he wanted to demand, in a voice that crackled with purpose, defiance, one that told them he wouldn’t be delayed or denied. That he was in control.

Instead, Bodhi kept his mouth shut and let them drag him along, as limp and pliable as a child’s toy.

There was something about the silence they walked with, and they _were_ silent, in contrast to spitting things too venomous and colloquial for him to understand. It made him wary, even more than he already was, and Bodhi stumbled over a lower threshold, a difference in height. No one laughed at him, but they shoved, and his knees slammed into what felt like a chair.

“ _N-no_ ,” Bodhi said, trying to grasp with his shaking hands the chair edge. He could see in his mind’s eye a lone chair in the middle of a bare room, a table full of sharp and wicked instruments. He’d heard stories of the camps — and what they did to Jews, subversives, enemy soldiers, agents, inferiors like him.

Maybe it was his turn to pay the price.

“ _Sit_ ,” a voice spat, and hands dragged him — fighting — into the chair, whereupon the heavy barrel of what was unmistakably a gun pressed to the bumps at the back of his neck. “I pull the trigger, and you lose everything from the neck down, understand?”

“I’m not — I’m not who you t-think,” Bodhi said. “I’m German, but I — but I’m not _with_ them. I d-defected, you saw my plane, it crashed — I jumped — it was being shot at by the _Luftwaffe_ —”

A fist cracked into his cheekbone and Bodhi slumped in the chair, gasping through his parted lips, like a fish sucking at the air and drowning on land.

“Nazis. Cowards. Traitors,” said a different voice, harder and as unyielding as the stone walls of his dark cell. “None of those fare well with us.”

“Oh,” Bodhi said, weakly, even though his instincts screamed at him to keep his mouth shut. The pain in his face and ankle was making him lightheaded, like he’d had too much to drink on an empty stomach. His mind was wandering, distancing itself from what was about to happen. “So you prefer loyal Nazis over traitorous ones?”

It occurred to him, dimly, that he shouldn’t have said so, but the fist came again and nearly whipped him out of the chair, if hands hadn’t been clamped on his shoulders to keep him there.

Bodhi could taste blood, and he probed at a cut on the inside of his cheek. It tasted of iron, sharp, but it made his stomach grumble sickeningly. He was starving, after all.

The next punch made him dizzy, and he felt the edges of his vision fur, slipping away like he was about to fall asleep.

The crash made him bolt upright again, his heart racing faster than what he thought humanly possible. Someone had entered the room, someone with a heavy stick that struck the ground with the force of a hammer hitting anvil, like a medieval quarterstaff, a halberd with a curved blade at the top —

Bodhi was rambling.

“A coward, traitor, Nazi — and a liar,” said a new voice.

This one was very different. Where the others were earth and mud and clay, this one was sparks and scorching metal, heat fanning across his face and making him flinch. But something else, something else he could sense. The metal in his voice was rusted, corroded, like the scraping of rusty nails in a box.

It was like a sickness in a smell. The stranger — whoever he was — was ill.

Bodhi realized the silence was his cue to answer. “I brought you a message, from — from your old friend — says you’ll remember —”

He could hear a rustle, identity documents being passed over, things they’d found in his satchel. “You were carrying false papers,” said the metallic voice. “A French coal miner, seeking to disappear. But you still have your uniform, and —” there was a clink, and Bodhi felt the absence of his metal tag around his neck, the one bearing his soldier number, consignment, and blood type “—a pilot in the _Wehrmacht_ , it seems. Now, which one am I to believe?”

“Galen Erso entrusted me with a message for Saul Guerra,” Bodhi said, desperation making his words race, and forcing him to race with them. “I need to speak to him, or —”

“Where’s the message, then? Are we to trust your word?”

Bodhi barely had time to react before hands were patting him down, and someone pushed to find the case in his uniform, pulling it roughly from him.

“It’s a — it’s a tape,” he said. “Saul has to listen to it, listen to Galen.”

Silence.

“ _Look_ ,” Bodhi felt his voice get louder at the maddening, stupid suspicion. All they had to do was _listen_ to the tape. Just listen. “We don’t have time for this! Galen Erso sent me with a message for Saul Guerra. I risked my life to bring it here, almost got shot down by my own country, nearly broke my foot and stayed for god knows how long in complete darkness. Why would I do _any_ of that unless I am who I say I am?”

There was a faint crack, like the case being opened, but still no response.

Bodhi could see Galen’s weary face, his distress and the ever-present wound from his part in the creation of the weapon, consuming him from the inside, and for one of the few occasions in his life, he lost his temper. “Where is Saul Guerra?” he demanded. “Where is he? Galen Erso’s life is at risk, and his daughter, and if you don’t bring me to him, I swear I’ll —”

The bag was ripped suddenly from his face, and Bodhi found himself staring into a pair of yellowed, cat-like eyes, set in a dark-skinned face and a beard frosted with age and strain. As his mouth stayed open, bloody and gaping in surprise, Bodhi looked at the tall, imposingly built man from head to toe, as stunned as a child meeting a character from a book in the flesh.

 _Flesh_. Beneath the cloak, only one heavily scarred arm extended to grasp the wooden staff. The other was an emaciated thing, amputated neatly above the elbow.

“Oh,” he said again. “You’re — you’re Saul Guerra.”

The leonine eyes were unforgiving, and he thumped his way forward, limping a little (from an old injury or new, Bodhi couldn’t tell), letting the chain on Bodhi’s tag slip through his fingers until it hung precisely level with his sweating face, and he could see the stamped letters and numbers that designated all he was in this life. Repeated twice, divided by a neat line down the middle to show where it could be broken in half, for identification purposes in the event of a death. One half would stay with the body, the other would go to the registry office. All he was, a number, an occupation, and a blood type.

Bodhi brought his eyes with difficulty up to meet Guerra’s. A bead of sweat made its way down the middle of his forehead, burning like acid. Running through his mind were the stories he’d heard from the others, of their soldiers being strung up to hang in tree groves, of merciless blasts leaving gruesome chemical-tainted burns, of the rumor that no German soldier had ever encountered a Guerra fighter and escaped alive.

“If a Nazi soldier dies, they pry off half, and return it to the unit in order to register the death,” Guerra said, in his harsh, rusted voice. “Don’t they, _Herr_ Rook?”

Bodhi felt like there was a stone in his throat, and it hurt him to swallow. “I’m telling the truth,” he said, barely managing not to shake.

Guerra didn’t seem to hear him. “Galen Erso was and is a dear friend of mine, which is why I warn you — there are dangers to invoking a name you could not _possibly_ understand. Galen’s, or his family’s. Do you understand, _boy_?”

Bodhi nodded, sweat stinging his eyes. But there was another question, one as dangerous as it was stupid, because Guerra had only reacted when he’d mentioned Galen’s daughter.

That was an answer enough, but Bodhi had to know.

“Is — is she still alive?” he asked. “G-Galen’s daughter?”

Guerra closed his hand around the metal tag, and let it fall to the floor as a twisted lump of shiny metal, nothing more than scrap. He jerked his head towards the men behind Bodhi.

“Prepare him,” he said.

Bodhi instinctively tried to run, writhe out of the chair, but more hands grabbed him by the back of the neck, by his sleeves, anchoring him to the seat while ropes lashed tight around his wrists, holding them to the wooden legs.

“Prepare? Prepare what?” he said, turning from face to face, finally to Guerra. “Prepare me for what?”

Guerra had been handed a case by one of his men, and he shifted the lid to reveal a row of small glass bottles, like the kind that contained drugs, morphine that doctors and nurses extracted with sharp needles.

“No.” Bodhi twisted. “Please — no.”

“No one keeps their secrets for long,” Guerra said, watching with something like fierce satisfaction as his men secured Bodhi to his prison. “We’ll see what lies you’ve brought me today. We’ll see who you really are, Bodhi Rook.”

Bodhi lunged until he could feel his shoulders straining. “I’m telling the truth, I swear! Please!”

Guerra’s eyes were almost glazed, far away in a world that was liars and truth-tellers, friend and foe, black and white. Bodhi was terrified, the most he’d been since he’d landed.

There was a rip as his sleeve was bared, bared for the needle that Guerra’s slightly shaking hand was using to draw the clear liquid, the poison that would leave him completely at the mercy of the strangers who hated him, and the man of myth whom Bodhi — as of that precise moment — wasn’t sure could be called _sane_ at all.

“Please!” he repeated, and there was a sharp stab of pain as the needle sank beneath his skin. “Please. _Please_. Pl—”

Something cool swept into his veins, and Bodhi slurred the end of his last plea. His breathing seemed abnormally loud, and he turned his head from left to right, faces blurring into a uniform sweep of strangeness. Seconds seemed to trickle by, becoming minutes, time slipping away…

Bodhi felt himself slide low in the chair and his neck bent, graceful and slow, chin on his chest like he couldn’t have supported it on his own. A hand moved him so that he had to look up at Guerra’s face, with eyes that glowed bright with hate.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Bodhi,” came the answer, not from him at all. “Rook.”

“Who are you really?”

“I’m the…”

Galen’s voice now, through all the others.

_You can make it right, if you’re brave enough._

_You have a good heart. Let it guide you to do the right thing._

Guerra was a shadow in front of his eyes, blocking the light. “Who are you really?” he repeated.

Bodhi stared at him. This was for Galen, this was for the message, this was for the war. He was only getting started. Whatever happened to him, he had the truth. Always and only the truth.

“I’m…I’m the pilot.”

In spite of himself, he managed to smile, because it was for Galen, and they couldn’t break him with the truth.

Clearer now, and stronger.

“I’m the pilot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so hopefully Bodhi's interrogation wasn’t too awful. I didn’t like writing it, but Saul’s come a bit unhinged during the time gap (along with accruing a few more serious injuries), and Bodhi unfortunately saw that firsthand.  
> And did I think about including Jabba the Hutt (in human and mobster form) because Diego Luna has a publicized obsession with him? Maybe. I like my jokes, every now and then.


	22. Rescue Mission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the welcome back, guys! It's really sweet of everyone to put up with my little ramblings :)))

Yellowish lines of gunfire streaked past the windows of the shuddering plane, blooming as they tore through the cloud cover and burst in the sky like fireworks. The supports beneath Cassian’s hand rattled like they were close to coming apart, and the plane began to tilt sideways with a sonorous groan, in an attempt to outmaneuver the snaking trails of enemy fire.

While Cassian was only a pilot out of necessity, he could tell that _this_ most definitely wasn’t going well. To put things in perspective, even with someone like Han Solo’s inhuman luck and ability to get out of tight spots, this would be cutting it dangerously close.

“Fifty-two percent chance of failure,” Kay said, at a volume that enabled him to be heard over the din, which made the others — agents, just like them — eye him like he was a leper.

“Kay,” Cassian said through his teeth.

There was a deafening _bang_ , shortly before a spurt of fire glowed outside the window.

“Now it’s sixty-five,” Kay amended.

“ _Not_ helping,” Cassian hissed.

“Well, if we’re insisting on being _revisionist_ , what _would_ have helped was taking a different route to drop those agents into Berlin, and assigning us a non-imbecile pilot capable of avoiding notice through careful flying. But barring your sudden discovery of an ability to wind back the hands of time, I — good sir — must content myself with being as jolly as I can about my wholly avoidable impending death, which is to estimate our chances of dying in an airborne explosion, if we don’t survive long enough to get cut to pieces in the landing. Now how’s _that_ for unhelpful?”

In answer to his question, another crash erupted somewhere outside the plane, and they were suddenly dipping in altitude, sharply.

Cassian gritted his teeth as his feet began to slide away from the floor, and the straps were the only thing still holding him to his jolting seat. The plane was coming down hard, squarely in enemy-occupied France, which in all likelihood meant they were going to meet fire on the ground, or an ambush that would certainly end in their capture, if not outright executions.

He wasn’t the kind to pray, but something else did burn inside his chest, fierce and unresolved. If they didn’t make their mission to liaise with Saul Guerra, Cassian found it hard to see how Draven could avoid sending Jyn to meet with the General instead. A flash of a smile, dark humor at its worst, quickly wiped clear as the ground rushed up to meet the plane’s nose, and they hit earth with a slam.

It seemed like an age later when Cassian opened his eyes. They watered from the searing smell of leaking fuel and the smoke billowing up from the wreckage. He couldn’t see the agents who’d been sitting across from him, but Kay seemed to be nearby, at least from the weight against his shoulder. Cassian shifted, and the simple movement alone was enough to make every bone in his body ache. The straps were crossed painfully tight over his chest, digging into flesh, constricting blood flow, and suddenly he could hear voices, the yellowish sweep of flashlights across the dull fires.

Shadows, indistinct shapes. A knife was sawing through the straps, and he landed hard on the ground, only to be hauled onto his feet, hands behind his back. The ringing in his ears came and went, but dimly — in the part of his brain that refused to be numbed from shock — registered German.

He swore, internally, silently, even though he’d guessed it might happen.

None of it was the least bit helpful, since the main point was that they were caught now, and unless they escaped — soon — they were all going to die.

Cassian stumbled over something — solid, soft — a body? Before he could look down and see, the butt of a rifle collided with his back and forced him to keep moving. Kay was on his feet too, dazed and just a short distance behind, and he shook his head once.

There was a truck waiting for them, meant to convey them to prison and a Gestapo interrogation. The sight was meant to create an instinctive panic, but Cassian fought it. His mind raced through the facts, forcing its way through through the distractions. He was a spy, spies needed to know what might incriminate them, where they were vulnerable. Every one of them were already disguised, no uniforms, no badges. Even so, the non-German plane and the parachutes had cemented their guilt beyond reasonable doubt, in the unlikely event that a careful examination of their accents didn’t reveal hints of Canadian French or American.

The suddenness of the ambush had ensured that none of them had the time to attempt an escape, but as they were bound by the wrists, searched, and shoved roughly into the darkness of the truck — six in all, meaning two hadn’t survived the crash — Cassian didn’t mistake the delayed reaction as one that meant they’d go quietly.

In fact, it was the very last thing he intended to do.

* * *

Four guards at the mouth of the truck, armed with rifles that could put a dozen bullets in any one of them if they tried so much as half a step. The truck itself was covered in thin canvas, inadequate for keeping out the chill, and the night was too opaque to hope that anything might illuminate their surroundings, help them discern where they’d crashed in France.

They’d been driving for an hour, maybe slightly more. A truck and two vehicles — smaller, quieter — cars, maybe, acting as armed escorts. Still no sign of where they might be.

Cassian’s shoulder was bleeding, maybe a little further down his back. Something sharp was embedded in the skin, maybe glass, maybe metal, scraping at the muscle in time to every jolt of the truck on uneven road. He could feel a wet patch on his shirt, but he didn’t make a sound. It wouldn’t get him sympathy. There were only weaknesses here to be exploited, just as he’d done with his informants, his contacts, countless times before.

So he watched. Listened, and waited, because his life depended on it. Kay had been shoved opposite of him, and they both had another agent on either side. At least three of them had broken bones or some kind of trouble moving their limbs; the rest — including himself — were still dazed from the impact of the crash and fighting hard against it. No one spoke, because it was enough to get them a hard knock by soldiers already itching for an excuse for violence.

There'd be plenty of time for that later.

The truck and company slowed, and floodlights snapped on in the murky darkness, making him wince at the sudden brightness.

Voices, the sound of eager dogs. A checkpoint.

One of the agents was peering through a small tear in the canvas. Cassian leaned forward, careless of the guards still in the truck.

“Where are we?” he muttered, a question that got him a sharp crack with a blunt baton and a warning to stay silent.

The pause was brief, and the engines rumbled again when they came to life. But the brief noise enabled one of them — a Canadian, if his memory served — to whisper back:

“Saint-Quentin. It was on the sign.”

Cassian looked up, intercepting a rare look of surprise from Kay, because it couldn’t be. Not after the luck they’d had — or lack thereof. It just couldn’t be. “What did you say?”

* * *

The night was sharp with a hundred dangers. The air hung as oppressively as coal smog, making traitors, cowards and subversives alike sweat in fear, even though it was cold enough — in late September, no less — to make a warm bed an infinitely enticing option.

Jyn shifted slightly in her hiding spot, a scarf wrapped around her hair to hide her profile and shadow her face. She scanned the dark windows on either side of the street. The shops were shuttered, windows closed in the hopes that it might thwart the cold, but she didn’t make the mistake of equating that to an absence of spies.

It was better in Saint-Quentin, but everyone needed to eat, needed coal to make up for the electricity shortages and the meager rations, needed a way to patch threadbare winter clothes and stop children from crying over their empty, rumbling stomachs.

It was easier to look down and pretend the Nazi flag didn’t fly from city hall, from building after building. It was also easier to call the number and whisper information down the scratchy line, hoping it would be enough for a full meal, or maybe just half.

All around Jyn was shadow, and she kept close, listening and watching. There were faces across from her too, huddled in thick mufflers and coats to disperse the visible haze of their breathing. One of the many things Jyn had to get herself used to was having other people with her on assignments, having to mind the safety of someone other than herself, delegate tasks that she'd normally trust only herself to do. Untangling the web of instincts that she’d built up from a life on the run, and unlearning the selfishness that came with pure survival.

Yet another rule Mothma had meant for her to learn, no doubt.

There were two others with her tonight, and Jyn flicked a quick glance at them, assessing nerves, anxieties, their grasp of the plan. Another thing she’d had to learn, and fast. Marcel, farm boy and one of the newer recruits she was in the process of breaking in, and Théo, a miner’s son, experienced and with them from the start.

They didn’t speak; it was too risky to make even the slightest sound. Especially since they were meant to be listening. A convoy was due to pass through their position, two armored cars and a truck, the latter bearing cargo too important to sabotage with a mine buried in the middle of the road. Normally, Jyn would have left them alone and let their radio operators intercept their transmissions, but she had good reason to interfere tonight.

A call sounded in the distance, three, maybe four houses away, and they all looked up. Jyn’s hand went to the satchel next to her hip. It was meant to be an owl's call, a damn good imitation of one, a signal to count to twenty, then —

The twisted spikes Théo had set onto the road — caltrops — gleamed like thorns under the headlights, a brief second of warning before the rubber tires ran one after another into a spray of sparks, skidding as they slowed at the middle of the road.

The armored car had stopped at a crooked angle, blocking the truck and the car behind. Jyn raised one hand to signal they wait. A car door opened, and someone cursed in German.

“What the —”

Jyn put her gun around the corner and fired a silenced shot through the soldier’s forehead. He collapsed backwards into the seat and she heard yells of surprise — along with the warning scramble of impending return fire — but she continued to shoot, forcing them to stay where they were. They were still shouting when she pulled the pin on a grenade and tossed it neatly into the car’s interior.

It went off with a flash of light and a bang that rattled all the windows the length of the road like an aftershock, and Jyn signaled for them to move. Broken glass crunched beneath her boots, and the bright orange flames sent a haze into the air, along with a thick cover of billowing black smoke.

The other team had taken care of the armored truck in the back, evidenced by the signs of neat sniper fire and warped metal spewing clouds of identical acrid smoke, which left only the truck as a hostile threat. There were two soldiers in the front, maybe a handful more guarding the cargo. She saw one of them reach for something, but the rapid patter of Marcel’s Sten gun cut him off before he could add much in the way of a fight, giving her the time she needed to clamber up the side of the truck. She slid along the roof, notching the silenced pistol back onto her belt and exchanging it for a knife.

The agitation from within the truck was like fraying static on a radio; she could sense it, see the repeat of a familiar scene in her mind. Prisoners in an enemy truck, bound, confused, unsure whether the sounds of gunfire meant friend or foe. Two years ago, that had been her, and now...

Jyn scanned the faces of her team, hidden in the wings, their weapons at the ready. Baze was half-hidden behind the sight of a rifle, but she saw his fingers twitch in a signal that he was covering her. Jyn nodded, but when she leaned forward — intending to grasp the edge and swing down — there was a sudden stir, a warning rustle of movement, and she twisted just in time to avoid the spray of gunfire that punctured the waxy cloth.

The rest of the canvas caught and ripped, and she tumbled through with a gasp, landing hard on her knees. But Jyn had come prepared for a fight, and she gave herself barely a half second’s pause before her knife flashed, and she did just that.

* * *

It was impossible to tell what had happened from inside the truck, with armed guards watching their every move. Which was why the sudden _snap_ and skid of metal on the road had confused Cassian for a brief second, before he realized that something wasn’t going according to plan with their prisoner transfer.

The Germans had searched him, but not nearly well enough. There were tools hidden in a flat pouch on the inside of his boot, and he slipped his fingers through to fish out the small — and very sharp — scalpel, meant to quietly sever ropes like the ones around his wrist. Kay had seen Cassian move, and he gave a slight nod, leaning back to try and see through the cracks between the canvas and metal frame. When the gunshots started, Cassian was still working to saw through the ropes.

The explosions to the front and back escort had shaken the whole interior of the truck, and sent their guards into a confusion. But they didn’t rush out. To them, inside a truck and braced for attack was better than meeting the unseen enemy head-on. Confusion tactics, disorientation, using darkness as a natural advantage. Smart. Dangerous.

Cassian’s shoulder was aching badly by the time the severed ropes fell silently by his ankle, but he forced himself to ease the scalpel beneath his boot, pushing it closer to Kay’s hand so he could use it. Their surroundings were silent now, deceptively so, and two of their guards had their rifles pointed at the entrance of the truck, the other one turned back to watch them.

“Don’t move,” he said, in German.

No one did, but there was a shift from above them, like someone’s weight was on the canvas ceiling, and the soldier facing them instinctively looked up.

Cassian moved, pitching his weight forward and barreling solidly into the man’s knees. He yelled, and gunfire exploded over their heads, ripping through the canvas. A shadow fell through the top, landing with the grace of a cat and barely a sound to match it, and Cassian turned just in time to catch a boot heel in his jaw. The hit was forceful enough to send him falling into one of the Canadians, but he recovered and kicked at the fallen rifle on the floor when the soldier tried to reach for it, sending it skidding further towards the back of the truck.

The three remaining guards had realized by now what was happening, and turned as one. Cassian threw himself low again to avoid the shots, but mostly to avoid the newcomer who seemed intent on attacking anyone on their feet.

So he stayed down.

One soldier went down with a spray of wet that could only have been blood, another slammed head-first into a steel beam with enough force to rattle the whole truck, while the last had been relieved of his rifle in the struggle and was currently — from the sound of it — being deprived of oxygen by something around his throat.

The light from the distant fires was only just enough to see by. Cassian heard a grunt, and turned just in time to see the guard he'd knocked down move, raising a sidearm from his belt.

Cassian lunged for the gun and they grappled for it. There was a grunt of pain as they stumbled, a _pop_ that made his ears ring dangerously again when the weapon went off — once, twice — towards the torn ceiling. As a measure of last resort, Cassian sank his teeth into the man’s wrist until he tasted blood and managed to twist away with the gun, which he proceeded to fire at its previous owner.

Then he turned to the last soldier, but as he did, the fires behind them flared — suddenly — thrusting everything into sharp relief, including the fighter who’d saved them. Small, narrow-shouldered, and familiar.

Almost too familiar to believe.

Cassian stared at Jyn Erso like it was the first time they’d met, and it might as well have been. After months, years, of shadows and _almosts_ and unanswered questions…there she was. It was like seeing a ghost, or something just as impossible, and from the way she stood rooted, unmoving — it was a shock to her too.

He gave his head a small shake, and was starting to lower his gun when a final shot rang out. The soldier she’d been strangling with a wire crumpled with a final wheeze, and Jyn let him tumble out the back of the truck, her hands falling limp at her side.

Cassian whirled to find the source.

“Is now _really_ the time to stop and stare?” Kay said irritably, a discarded rifle in hand.

Jyn peered past Cassian’s shoulder, clearly recognizing (how could she not?) the sound of Kay’s voice.

She looked…it was impossible to describe how she looked. But Cassian knew why he was hesitating to say anything. Whatever dreams, whatever careless thoughts he’d had over the last two years — he never, truly genuinely expected to see her again.

Now here she was.

Here _they_ were.

And he had everything to say, only he couldn’t make a sound.

Jyn moved so suddenly that he thought she’d stumbled, and he took half a step as though to catch her. But when she slammed into him with a muffled gasp — partly a choked word and an exhale of pure surprise — her arms were behind his neck, her hands grasping at the back of his shirt, and he realized that she’d meant it.

She clutched him close to her (she was lighter in his arms, thinner) and Cassian let out a slow breath against her hair, feeling the relief wash over him, even though they were far from being clear of the woods. They’d need to run, and fast, but for now — just a moment — they were two people forcing the world to give them time, even if it was only seconds.

They finally broke apart, and Jyn’s eyes, dark blue in the low light, searched his face in a way that was almost hungry. The same hunger, the aching _presentness_ , that had made it impossible to leave her behind the first time.

There was a smile, or something very close to one, and Cassian wondered, in a brief, inexplicable moment of understanding, if she was thinking about when she’d been a prisoner in enemy hands, and the Resistance had been the ones to break her out.

They’d come so far since then, all of them, and it was impossible to go back now. “I suppose…congratulations are in order,” she said finally, in a tone of voice remarkably close to her normal one, if Cassian hadn't known her as well as he did. Still. “You’ve just been rescued.”

* * *

The table’s contents scattered across the floor with an almighty crash, and Galen swept a gaze around the room, at the faces exhibiting a range of emotions, none of them pleasant. Fear, uncertainty, and shock. To be precise, it was a room filled of people who not only staffed but controlled the formidable hub of scientific research and advancement for the Third Reich. Brilliant minds, and they were all struck dumb at Otto Krennic’s terrific display of temper.

“ _One pilot_ managed to slip through your fingers?” he snarled at the Major in charge of the air squadrons. “We control the skies over France — over Europe. _How_ was this possible?”

The man was taller than Krennic, but he’d paled. “Sir, we —”

A radio went flying into the wall, scattering in pieces across the floor. One of the rotors came to a spinning stop beside Galen’s boot.

Krennic held up his hand before the Major could attempt another answer, inhaling sharply as though to calm himself. “Security has been breached, but I see no reason for the Fuhrer to know more than absolutely necessary. Start to disperse our projects, per relocation protocol. Nothing is to be missed.”

“The fuel refinement cannot be moved, Colonel,” Galen said, in a mild voice. “It will have to stay, and the final project as well —”

“ _No_ ,” Krennic said sharply. “It goes. Dismantle it piece by piece if you have to, but it’s not staying here. Move the project to Schatzgräber base.”

There was a silence at the name. _Schatzgräber._ _Treasure Hunter_. It was nearly a myth to those present, and Galen doubted more than a handful of them had ever seen the base firsthand. He had, maybe five years ago, when Krennic thought there might have been an opportunity to mine for the crystals there. To his memory, crystal deposits were indeed present in the caves, but the survey for a potential mine had been concluded due to the sheer brutality of the conditions. Located on an island in the middle of the Arctic Ocean, its only strategic purpose wasn’t made clear until the outbreak of war, and Allied vessels began passing through from Britain and the United States to deliver supplies to Russia. Establishing a base there was a convenient hub for U-boats to attack supply convoys, which they had. Until the ESD had successfully commandeered it from an increasingly reluctant navy, and established their research base. War had also yielded one more resource that had been a problem with the initial survey — manpower. Specifically, prisoners. German miners would never have accepted the work, but captured prisoners of war lacked that choice.

The thought made Galen’s stomach twist again in dark, corrosive guilt. Imagining the caves and the gradually weakening men who crawled through them, searching for an elusive gleam of the strange crystal they didn’t understand.

Lyra would have been angry enough to kill Krennic for it, twisting the nature of the crystals into something that couldn’t have been intended. More importantly, she would have had the courage to try.

All Galen could do was _think_.

Schatzgräber was a risk, and a bad one. It was hidden, harder to reach, and any attack launched on it would face a natural disadvantage outside of the advanced fortifications. The weather had every capability of acting with brutal, lethal effect, and more importantly, it meant that Bodhi’s information would be out of date. He would think the weapon still remained at its current location, and so would Saul.

But Galen knew that contradicting Krennic on the matter — especially while he was in this state — would look suspicious, so he merely nodded. “As you wish.”

Krennic looked momentarily appeased by the agreement, but it faded as soon as he looked at the wary faces surrounding him, and he waved a hand in dismissal. “Dismissed,” he said. “Back to your stations.”

There was a near-unanimous shift as everyone moved to do as Krennic asked, but Galen had only taken two steps before he was stopped. “Not you, Galen,” Krennic said, still breathing hard. “You stay.”

Galen’s insides gave a traitorous lurch, and he turned back to face the Colonel, a man who still thought — and needed to think — that he was a friend. For the sake of the plan. For the sake of everything.

Even though Galen hated the man with every fiber of his being, for Lyra, for the daughter he’d never see again, and for the family that would never be whole, he could still decipher Krennic without assistance, guess at the moves before he made them. It was useful, given how Galen had to make sure he was outpacing Krennic at all times. Two, three moves ahead on the board.

Krennic’s gaze was at once indignant — indignant that anyone could have given them the slip — and furious, the kind of fury that made him dangerous, the kind that had a tendency to demand retribution in blood. It was the same quality that had made him a bully at school, and later, ensured that he rose sharply in the ranks of the Third Reich.

Galen merely waited to hear what Krennic wished of him.

“This is a betrayal,” he said, with the slightest tremor of suppressed rage. “That cargo pilot — we _never_ should have allowed someone like him onto the base. A true German would never have betrayed us.”

“Otto,” Galen said. “He was a boy. A scared boy, not a soldier. He defected because he was afraid, not because he wanted to betray us.”

Krennic jerked his head, his hand clenched. There was an observation window behind them, overlooking the ongoing construction. The glass rattled when Krennic’s fist thumped against it, and Galen looked to the window as well.

“What could he have taken?” Krennic asked.

Galen pretended to consider it. “I looked over his file after the defection was reported. His clearance was limited to the common areas — the mess hall, the barracks. He was sometimes used to deliver messages — my messages — but I don’t see how he could have understood any of the reports he might have carried.”

“Did he ever see the weapon?” As ever, there could only be one thing on Otto Krennic’s mind.

“No,” Galen said, and it was true. “He never had the clearance.”

Krennic seemed calmer, but only just. “This could cost us everything. If he tells _them_ , if he tells anyone, we’ve lost. Even a rumor —”

“A _rumor_ , Otto,” Galen said reasonably. “Who would believe him?”

Krennic looked sulky now. “A madman like you,” he answered.

Galen nodded, turning the moment into one of dark humor. “Indeed. But here I am, at your bidding. You must know, Otto, that the weapon’s too advanced to be stopped now. Even if the Allies find out, even if I died tomorrow, nothing could stop it from destroying the Führer’s enemies.”

A heavy sigh, like a machine releasing a blast of pent-up steam. Krennic reached for his gloves again, and his movements were steadier, no longer shaking with fury. “You’ll see it’s moved by the end of the week,” he said, and it wasn’t phrased as a request.

“By the end of the week,” Galen said. “I’ll have our people work around the clock.”

“Thank you, Galen,” Krennic said, and coming from anyone else, Galen might have felt a small twist of guilt at the knowledge that he was betraying a friend’s trust.

For Krennic, he felt nothing. Anything was directed at Bodhi, concern for his well-being, his danger, to Saul, wherever he might be, and Jyn — if she still lived.

_Whatever I do, I do it to protect you. Say you understand._

“Don’t thank me yet,” Galen said, glancing at the sweeping outline of the dark plane on the deck below. He pretended it was in pride, when really it was to disguise the deep ache in his heart at the thought of his daughter.

The sight of the weapon seemed to please Krennic, because he slowed just long enough to take in the project again. “The _Death Star_ ,” he said, and Galen felt a chill down his back at the name, pronounced with vicious satisfaction in Krennic’s harsh voice. “I didn’t like the name at first — but now I see — it seems rather apt, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed.”

Krennic’s hand descended on his shoulder. “It’s been a trying time,” he said. “The Führer wants results, and Himmler — well — you know what Himmler’s like. We work with theorems and mechanics while he digs for old bones and declares he’s found magic.”

Galen’s tone was dry. “How very fortunate for Reichsführer Himmler, but I remain a man of science. The politics, I leave to you, old friend.”

Krennic very nearly chuckled. “As ever,” he said, and turned to go, oblivious to the evidence of his lost temper, papers and torn pages across the floor, broken machinery lying about like disjointed body parts.

“Goodbye, Galen,” he called, before the door swung shut.

Galen stared through the glass, unseeing. “Goodbye, Otto.”

He didn’t breathe a sigh of relief, because it was only a matter of time.

Krennic would kill him for the betrayal, and Galen knew it.

The thought didn’t weary him as much as he might have believed, a man his age, still young, thinking of his impending death. Instead, it kindled in him something like defiance, a determination to burn, and burn bright until the very end.

Galen Erso’s last effort to make things right.

Turning from the weapon, the Death Star, Galen walked from the room, determined and prepared to see it through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, snow isn't the same as sand, but I was reading about weird stuff during WWII the other day and Schatzgräber Base (which apparently did/does exist) made my brain do stuff. So there we go. Schatzgräber = Scarif.
> 
> Oh, and EVERYONE'S BACK TOGETHER. Except Bodhi, but we're getting there, people.
> 
> Cassian: *sees Jyn again* *proceeds to get kicked in the face*  
> BWAHAHAHAHAHA. Sorry.


	23. Distance

Jyn dropped past the grate and straightened up on the dusty floor. She didn’t speak — none of them did — it was too risky to make a noise before they’d all reached the safe zone. Comparatively safe, anyway. A pair of legs came through, gingerly now, and she grasped them as carefully as she could manage, helping lower one of the injured agents onto the ground. He still groaned against her shoulder when his foot made contact with the unforgiving stone. Jyn couldn’t help but think as a commanding officer, that it likely was a badly sprained ankle, if not a broken bone, and whatever his original assignment, he was going to have to sit it out.

Three more unfamiliar agents followed, then Cassian. He seemed to be gritting his teeth against some kind of pain, and she felt his muscles tense when he landed on the stone, a damp patch against her sleeve where her arm curled against his middle. Jyn helped him lean against the wall, shifting further to the side so that Kay could climb down too.

The grate was shifted carefully — quietly — back into place, setting the church back to rights, but Jyn shook her head when she sensed Cassian about to prompt her, holding up her hand for silence.

A second later, her cautiousness received its justification in the form of engines. Another German patrol, doing its hourly sweep of the sectors.

They all scattered into the darkness, taking their various hiding places against the walls, which were all rough and jutting stone, the first foundations of the cathedral left untouched for generations. Jyn stayed crouched at Cassian’s side, staring ahead as the pale searchlights cast strange shadows in passing. The Saint-Quentin basilica had been in the process of restoration since the first war, and now still looked more like a ruin than a place of worship, exposed scaffolding in parts and patches of ceiling only covered with waxy canvas to keep out the rain and snow.

The Father watching over it — snorted at by the occupying enemy — was a friend, and someone who Jyn was relying on to give them temporary shelter. The patrols were slower, searchlights sweeping in a painstakingly slow circle like a lighthouse in the fog, a sign that they were on the alert.

Cassian’s head was lowered, facing the ground as they waited for the tense minutes to pass, and she could feel his breath on her neck, slow and regular as the tide. He seemed…different to her, somehow. The same, the same where the sight of him could absorb her focus, drawing her attention without a need to try. But it was as though she’d read his face and sensed something odd, something not quite right. Maybe it was that, something out of place with him, something important, a weariness, a cynicism above and beyond what he’d been before.

A question burned inside her chest, and she ducked her head to find his ear. “Why are you here?” she whispered.

Cassian stirred at the question; she felt it in the soft scrape of his rough cheek against her own. Blood — hot, unwanted — rushed into her face at the triggered memory of the dance, London, the night they’d said goodbye…

Jyn tucked her hair back from her ear to hear his answer. “I remember what I promised,” he murmured. “When we met. That you’d find your father.”

Jyn looked at him in surprise, because a part of her hadn’t actually believed it could happen, just like that. A part of her hadn’t wanted to trust that Mothma might deliver on her promise, on her stated affinity. A part of her hadn’t wanted — couldn’t bear — to be disappointed again.

But Cassian was _here_. Here for her.

Just like they had before, Jyn’s fingers found Cassian’s in the dark and held on tight. Holding on tight to the last possible second, until it was time to let go.

The surrounding stone leeched warmth from an already cold night, and they were all breathing white mist when the patrols finally receded into the distance, and Jyn clicked on her flashlight. She moved the beam quickly past the various expressions of trepidation, and clamped it between her teeth as she began to climb, up the rusting set of iron rungs set into the stone.

Using the metal base of the flashlight, she rapped on the stone.

A pause. Then the small patch of ceiling above her head began to move.

Baze’s face appeared by candlelight. “Little sister,” he said, by way of greeting and what was very nearly fondness.

“Baze tells me we have casualties,” Chirrut said, offering her the solid weight of his habitual wooden staff as a handhold to get out of the crypt. “Let’s see them, shall we?”

He was in a priest’s habit, as though he might have been kneeling on the tiled floor by the altar saying his prayers when Baze — who Jyn had sent ahead to alert Chirrut — had interrupted.

“I think one of them might have a broken ankle,” she said, on her knees beside the hole. “We’ll need some —”

A coil of rope fell across her lap before she could even finish, and Jyn shook her head at Chirrut’s knowing smile. “Why do I even bother?”

“Oh, by all means, have your friendly chit-chat while we freeze to death in a hole.” Kay’s voice drifted irritably up from the crypt, and Chirrut cocked his head, evidently nonplussed.

“I left out the surprise,” Baze said in explanation. “I thought the fool would have guessed on his own.”

“Why, Major Kay,” Chirrut said, as the person in question emerged from the climb, scowling. “Is the Captain with you?”

“I’m here,” Cassian answered.

“But not for bloody long if you three insist on making smalltalk,” Kay added snippily. Jyn noticed that he’d bound up one of his wrists, which probably explained the his increased snappiness. He was injured too.

The other agents came out of the crypt in short order, the ones with injured limbs hauled out by grasping the length of rope tight, tugged by Baze all on his own. Cassian was last, and Jyn had been leaning so close to the trapdoor that when his head emerged, she had to jerk hers back in surprise.

It was instinctive, shyness and something else, born of the same place that led to Jyn launching herself on Cassian to hug him — back when they’d seen each other for the first time in years. When she’d stayed close by him in the dark while they waited for the patrol to pass. More from impulse than conscious thought. Seeing him in front of her, alive and just… _there_ — she hadn’t thought. She wasn’t thinking now.

Even so, Jyn had no doubts whatsoever that Kay might have wrung her neck himself if she so much as tried to get Cassian alone, and in all honesty — she wasn’t sure if she would. After all, he had to be going soon. She might have been sent to rescue anybody; them meeting again was just an accident.

It was always like that with them. Sudden bursts of intimacy, and the stilted hesitation when it was over, like they weren’t quite sure what to do without having their backs to the wall — metaphorical and literal.

Now, the near-brush was an awkward moment only barely smoothed over by Cassian himself. “Good to see you,” he said, looking from Baze to Chirrut. “Sorry about this.”

“Not at all,” Chirrut said, his hand on Cassian’s arm. “We help friends, don't we?”

Baze tapped a spot on his chin. “Slow reflexes?” he said to Cassian, and Jyn realized that his chin was bruising from where she’d kicked him during the fight, mistaking him for a German soldier in the dark.

It was enough to make her cheeks prickle self-consciously, but Cassian only chafed at the forming bruise with something of a rueful smile. “My fault.”

“ _Lyra_.”

Jyn looked towards the upper gallery at the whisper. Another one of the Renegade circuit, Céline, motioned for them to go. Her blonde curls gleamed silver under the faint moonlight filtering in from the stained glass windows. “A patrol's coming. Hurry inside.”

“ _Lyra?_ ” Kay said, not quietly at all. “Who in the bloody hell is _Lyra_?”

Jyn ignored whatever nitpick Kay was itching to make and jerked her head at the side of the church. Their superseding priority was to hide the agents somewhere less open than the main hall, and Chirrut knew his way better around the old cathedral than she did. He held an iron candlestick aloft now, in one hand like it weighed the same as a single taper, and he beckoned for them to follow him through the cloisters.

A heavily carved wooden door shifted, and they all filed into a back corridor, which in turn branched off into more. With an effortless memory that explained why he was the one usually set puzzles and mazes, Chirrut pushed gently on one of the innocuous wooden panels, and they found themselves in an empty study, one with a fire and a carpet nearly faded gray with age.

There were bowls of hot water and bandages waiting, and Jyn dropped her satchel by the door. Time to get to work.

* * *

Cassian pulled a piece of glass from one of his shoulders with a wince. The cut itself made more sound than he did, releasing the sharp fragment with a wet squelch. A dash of disinfecting sulfa hurt even more, but his only concern was stemming the bleeding.

“That looks bad,” said one of the Americans. He’d called himself Jack, shortly before Kay had diagnosed a dislocated shoulder and shoved it coolly back into joint. Cassian looked at the man’s arm now with something close to amusement.

“I don’t know how I’ll live,” he answered dryly, beginning to pass some gauze around the cut. “Where are you from?”

“Queens. New York,” said Jack, wincing as he sat up. “You? Spain?”

Cassian shook his head. “Mexico City.”

“Bet it’s nicer than here.”

Cassian turned his head slightly, where Jyn was in low-voiced conversation with Baze and two unfamiliar men — locals, from what he’d heard of their accents. She looked completely absorbed with her responsibilities, and they were considerable. Whatever her past had been with Rogue team — and Cassian as her commanding officer — Jyn was in charge here, and the others looked to her for instructions.

It didn’t bother him that she’d moved onto other concerns, seeing as Chirrut and Kay were capable of handling injuries. Jyn had never been the kind to hover, and Cassian knew it because they were — or had been, at least — alike in that respect. Preferring movement to stillness, even when standing in place. There were always thoughts to chase, things that needed seeing to.

It was better if they talked in private anyway, later. Even though he wasn’t sure what he had to say, not when he’d missed the chance to tell her outright that she’d been reassigned back to their team, for a mission involving Saul Guerra. That the mission might bleed into the one regarding her father — as if the two had ever been extricated, bound as tightly together as they were — and he was under the threat of an open-shut treason charge if he failed to assassinate her father.

Suffice it to say he was holding back for a reason.

Jack winced at the sight of Kay coming back over. “What do you want?” he said, more out of wariness than hostility. “I didn’t move my arm — just like you told me to.”

“And I’m sure someone will give you a pat on the head for that,” Kay said, making his patient flinch. “Don’t burst into tears quite yet. I’m not here for you.”

Jack shifted further away and Kay took his place, rummaging through the supplies for more bandages. Cassian gave him a look. “We’re all on the same side, you know,” he said.

Kay snorted. “Clearly someone never went to boarding school. Honestly, all this hurrah about a _positive outlook_ among these Yanks, next thing would be to award commendations just for breathing and being able to stand up straight.”

Cassian looked at the professionally crisp binding Kay had managed around his wrist. “Should I not commend you for treating everyone here?” he inquired.

“No, you need not,” Kay finished, looking at his wrist with satisfaction. “I’m perfectly capable of diagnosing my own sprained wrist without any need for prizes, thank you very much.”

“You’re irritated,” Cassian said, sitting back slightly. “Why are you irritated?”

Kay raised an eyebrow. “Do you honestly have to ask?”

“I can’t tell if you’re still angry with the pilot of the drop plane, or at Jyn.”

“Well, our dear Mr Pilot didn’t survive the crash, and I don’t have a habit of taking grudges beyond the grave, it takes far too much energy,” Kay answered. “And I’m not the least bit angry at Miss Erso for saving our lives.”

Cassian blinked. “Then what?”

Kay huffed a breath. “If you must know, I’m irritated because you and Miss Erso are wasting approximately twenty percent more time than should be strictly necessary with all this… _dancing_ around each other. Tell her that she’s been reassigned, for God’s sake, and let’s move on.”

“I know,” Cassian said. “I know I should, just —”

“What?”

Kay didn’t know about Draven’s last order, and Cassian didn’t want him to know. It would implicate him too, if it came to that. If he chose to pull the trigger. The very least he could do, in a situation beyond his control, was to make sure that he at least was the one to shoulder the responsibility.

So Cassian told the truth, but only in part. “It’s just…it’s been a while.”

Kay rolled his eyes. “Good lord.”

* * *

“Six of them,” Baze said.

Jyn glanced at the half-open door and the length of twine snaking through from the corridors like a golden thread in a labyrinth. On the other end of it was Théo, on the rooftops and currently keeping watch for German patrols. They had a habit of traversing the town with signal detectors on the roofs of their cars, capable of narrowing the source of the transmission down to the block, which meant sending messages had to be done as quickly as possible, because evading detection depended on it.

“ _Six_ of them,” Baze repeated, seeing her lack of response. “Four, if the Major and the Captain end up staying. _Four_.”

“They’re staying, I think,” Jyn said. She continued to tap out the codes one-handedly, the other holding the earpiece so that she could hear the sent signals. It prevented her from looking in the direction of the fire, where Cassian currently was, even though her attention did drift there — not by her doing.

Céline had slipped back into the room around five minutes ago, and she’d been near the fire since then. Jyn could have pretended that it was for warmth (she’d been standing guard in a cold church, after all), but given the steady murmur of French — hers and Cassian’s — not to mention the small fluttering laughs, the excuse was stretched excessively thin.

Jyn didn’t _flirt_ , and she admittedly had a limited degree of patience with girls who immersed themselves in occupational coquetry, but Céline had the very useful skill set of being dangerous with a knife as she was with some rouge and a smile. More importantly, she was loyal and unfailingly charming. But also _pretty_.

The mental comparison made Jyn stand a little straighter, as though making up for her diminutive stature would bridge the difference in shortcomings. It was admittedly a little immature, imagining that one flirtatious conversation was straying into some kind of territory exclusive to Jyn, and only Jyn. Especially since Cassian was free to do precisely what he wanted, and she certainly didn’t have the desire or capacity to stop him. The temptation to use her authority to send Céline somewhere else also held a brief — and very petty — allure, but Jyn would never abuse her power. She didn’t care enough about it to make the effort.

She had other things to concern herself with, namely four to six agents who’d need a way out of a highly unsafe France.

“ _Four_.”

Jyn rolled her eyes. “I’m aware of that, yes.”

“There’s no way we can smuggle all of them out.”

_Passengers retrieved by Renegade. Will arrange transport._ On the message went, transmitted on repeat in the hopes someone was listening at Baker Street.

“Why not?” Jyn said, still waiting for the confirmation. “We’ve done it before.”

“One or two. Four is suicide.”

“So is stopping an armored convoy in the middle of town,” she pointed out. “Didn’t stop us.”

Baze made an irritated sound under his breath. “Easy for you to say — you’re reckless. No concern for that neck of yours.”

Jyn was saved the trouble of answering by a confirmation on the wires. “Problem solved then,” she said, winding down the machine.

“Not really,” Baze said. “How are two Americans and two Canadians, a Mexican and an Englishman getting out of occupied France without getting caught?”

“Are you trying to tell a joke?” Jyn asked, with her expression as serious as she could manage.

Baze looked like he wanted to cuff her around the head. “Do I look like the kind of person who jokes?”

Jyn gave him a look. “I told you, Kay and Cassian are staying.”

At that point, their discussion was joined by the others. Cassian had a fresh bandage on his shoulder and was accompanied by Kay, with Céline nowhere in sight. She checked, and saw that she’d started to flirt with one of the Canadians now — a sight that defused the uncomfortable sensation somewhere near her midriff.

Cassian had caught her looking, and he tilted his head slightly, turning back to see what had her attention. Jyn hastily fumbled for something to say.

“It’s good to see you,” she said, and it came out a little louder than she’d meant it to. “Really.”

Kay looked as stern as ever, but his expression softened, if only a little. “In light of the rescue, I suppose we are — as the Americans say it — _even_ , Miss Erso.”

“You knocked me over when you were the one doing the rescuing,” Jyn reminded him. “ _Then_ we’ll call it even.”

“Still as rude as usual,” Baze grunted.

“I rather think you’re the pot in this situation, Mr Malbus,” Kay answered snippily.

“What he means…” Chirrut began.

“I know what he _means_ , and I’d just like to add that —”

In the background of familiar bickering, Jyn chanced another look at Cassian, and found that she’d been the one lagging behind. He was already studying her, in that quiet way of his, as though there were things that might have changed while they’d been on separate missions, on separate tracks.

Was he thinking about her father?

Or about… _that_.

Jyn pressed her lips together and saw his eyes follow the movement. Heat crept into her neck, her throat, and she deliberately turned her head back towards the others.

The last time they’d been together, they’d kissed. More than once. How was it possible for them to be so damnably awkward now? All because there were other people around and more than sufficient light.

Jyn raised her voice slightly. “You’re all lucky to be alive,” she said. “The plane must have been scrap after the patrol shot it down.”

“Yes, we’re practically skipping,” Kay said.

Jyn ignored the sarcasm as Baze curled up one of their maps again — Saint-Quentin, marked heavily with locations of an impending strike she’d been discussing — and replaced it with the one of occupied France.

“You’ve been busy,” Cassian said, nodding his head at the plans.

Jyn shrugged her shoulders. “They sent me to raise hell, didn’t they?”

“I _thought_ I smelled sulfur,” Kay muttered, in a not-quite-undertone.

“I hope you’ve both been well,” Chirrut said, unflappably good-natured as ever, even when Kay was being intentionally difficult. “Our prayers were with you.”

“ _Our_?” Baze said. “Don’t pretend, Chirrut. You were the only one praying — I was asleep.”

Jyn scratched behind one ear, wondering how it was possible that one of the first things they were capable of doing after two years of separation was descend back into cross-purposes and bickering.

“ _Anyway_ ,” she interrupted, before it could digress even further. “We’ll need to arrange transport. Assuming the four agents are the only ones being sent back to HQ, it’s still not easy getting them out of the country without attracting the wrong kind of attention. Americans — especially ones involved with espionage — are in high demand.”

“You flatter us,” Chirrut said kindly.

Jyn smiled and pulled off her gloves to start showing them the possible routes. The firelight caught a gleam of metal on her ring finger, and when she looked up, Cassian was staring at it in a moment of unguarded intensity.

Jyn cursed internally and worked the band over her knuckle, slipping it into the pocket of her slacks. “It’s a cover,” she said, to no one in particular.

“Dead husband,” Baze volunteered, helpfully. “Fictional.”

“ _Thanks_.” Jyn cleared her throat and looked up again — a little more cautiously than before.

Kay had clearly been in the process of shooting Cassian a small glare. “And did he die of natural causes?” he said, acidly, turning his gaze towards her. “This fictional husband of yours.”

Jyn wasn’t fooled. It was Kay’s way of showing he was at least somewhat pleased to see her. “I’ll reenact his death scene with you, if you’d like,” she answered, and saw him very nearly smile back.

It was like the last two years hadn’t happened. Of course they had, and Jyn would be naive to think that it wouldn’t matter, but for a brief moment, it felt like the five of them never been separated at all.

“I’ll arrange safe houses and a pickup with my contact, and if all goes well — they’ll be in their own beds by the end of the week,” Jyn said. “That’s them taken care of. What about us?”

Cassian and Kay exchanged looks. “You’ve been reassigned,” Cassian said, in the businesslike tone she remembered, the one delineating distraction from work. “Back to the mission.”

_The mission_. As though there would only ever be one that mattered. When Cassian said that he’d come to make good on his promise, somehow a reassignment hadn’t quite occurred to her as the explanation. Maybe even for a brief moment, she’d thought that he’d somehow gone rogue. For her.

_Selfish. Stupid. Out of character._

“Oh,” Jyn said, and instantly thought of the next question. “Why?”

There had to be a reason. Nothing was ever that simple, and Cassian had just reminded her of that.

“It’s Saul Guerra,” he said. “Lately, he’s been…difficult. Or so I’ve been told. I haven’t seen him in person.”

Jyn felt something inside her crystallize and harden, notwithstanding the knowledge that Cassian hadn’t had much of a chance to see Saul either. “Oh?” she said, with a single raised eyebrow, as though she hadn’t known all along what her old mentor had been up to. Pretending she’d been a good lieutenant and followed her orders, staying away from the missions too high for her clearance.

Because clearly Cassian was too. Following orders — which was the only reason why they’d even come face to face, after all this time. He couldn’t have detached from his orders, not even for her. Jyn knew this about him, of course she did, and had known it from the start. But it still stung.

The fact that his mission was to see Saul — or negotiate with him — _marry_ the man, for all she cared — was just one damnable coincidence.

Baze and Chirrut knew as well as Jyn did that there was a correspondence between her and Saul, helped by a certain American smuggler with few qualms about official orders. Chirrut looked around, inquisitively. “I thought the mission to find the weapon was still a priority. Are you saying it’s been downgraded?”

“They haven’t used it in more than two years, Chirrut,” Baze said. “Clearly the dimwit Council thinks that’s a reason to give up. Either that or you’re both very bad at your jobs.”

He gave them both speculative looks, as though gauging their competence was possible with one of his fixed, uncompromising stares.

“But you’re not, are you?” Jyn said, and saw Cassian take it in, always observing, always analyzing. Here, it was the three of them against him and Kay. Not hostile, not really, but Chirrut, Baze and herself were a unit, more of a team of three than five. Natural loyalties. They’d been with her longer, and they’d _stayed_.

Another kernel of resentment, and maybe a little smugness. It was partly his fault, after all.

“We know there’s a weapon,” Cassian said, finally.

Kay gave him a sharp look of warning. “Cassian.”

The warning went ignored, as though Cassian knew that he had to be the one to make the first offer. “We know there’s a weapon, but we’re not sure why they haven’t used it. What they’re waiting for. But that’s not why we’ve been sent to meet Guerra again. There’s a German pilot — a defector — he crashed near where Guerra’s faction is causing trouble, and the Germans clearly want him back. We think he might be carrying something important, something damaging for the Nazis, and the reason he crashed there was because he was on his way to find Guerra.”

So it wasn’t even about the mission to find her father’s weapon. It was about some nameless traitor with _potentially_ useful information for the Council, rendered unreachable because Saul Guerra — in a startlingly similar turn of events to two years ago — was being stubbornly uncooperative.

As Kay once said, if the past was any indicator of future likelihoods, Jyn knew where this was likely to go. She’d help, the Council would accept the results, and she’d be cast aside. Again.

She’d bargained to be assigned to _the_ mission. The one to find her father. No _ifs_ , no conditionals, nothing. That was her deal with the devil, and she was getting dangerously impatient with their attempts to delay making good on it.

Jyn reached for the maps Baze had cleared away and unfurled them again, reaching for her tools with the other. She had strikes to plan, supplies to arrange for. Not chasing down errands for masters who were going to turn on her as soon as she helped them.

Cassian and Kay were staring at her like they had no idea why she wasn’t looking grateful — relieved — why she’d just gone back to her work as though nothing had changed.

“I’ll let you be on your way then,” she said, coolly. “Don’t let me stop you.”

“Jyn,” Cassian said, and she stared back, hard-eyed. “Come with us.”

“You seem perfectly capable of handling him yourself,” she answered. “And my place is here. Four agents still need a way out of France.”

“How about in caskets?” Baze muttered. “It’s _suicide_.”

She ignored him.

Kay looked indignant. “Did you not understand the part about being reassigned, Miss Erso? You have _orders_ —”

Even if Cassian hadn’t motioned for Kay to be quiet, she still would have ignored him.

“Jyn,” Cassian said again. “I know you’re angry with the General, b—”

“I’m not letting him use me again,” she said, with a fierceness that billowed out so suddenly, so potently, that even she was surprised.

Jyn fought to regain her temper, a brief, silent struggle that saw her voice, when she used it again, low and rough. “He used me to get access to Saul, and when he had it, he dumped me. I’m surprised he’s lasted this long without having it all blow up in his face, but I couldn’t care less that it’s happening now. _The General_ can go to hell. I don’t need him to find my father, and I’m done jumping through flames to get his approval. I’m in charge here. I may get directives from London, but I’m not on their leash, and I’m not stupid enough to put myself there again.”

There was a silence, and Jyn stared into Cassian’s face. Her temper had been mastered — and she knew she wasn’t angry at him. Not really. It was the situation. As always, beyond and above their control.

She was tired of it.

“Saul’s in Lyon now,” she said, making it clear precisely how much she knew. All she cared to know. “I’ll get you as far as I can, but that’s the extent of it. You’ll go off to your meeting, and I’ll take care of my business, luck be with us all.”

“Jyn,” Cassian said, in a tone of voice that made her want to back away. Not because it crackled with authority, the kind that made her bristle with defiance. But because it was heavy with everything going unsaid — that had gone unsaid — over years, and now wasn’t the time.

She responded by giving him a sidelong look, a half-smile with a razor’s edge, warning him preemptively not to even try. Because there was a bruise forming on his jaw where she’d kicked him by accident, and if he kept trying to convince her to do Draven’s bidding, there was every chance that he’d have another one pretty soon — this one meant with purpose.

“I wouldn’t have come if I thought it was the same as before,” Cassian continued. “It’s different this time. There’s a message from your father — that’s who the defector is saying sent him.”

Jyn stared at him. Partly because he was only mentioning — no, _admitting_ — it now, on the threat of her not joining the mission. As though he hadn’t wanted to raise her hopes, not without good reason.

Her chest felt strangely tight. “There’s a message from my father?” she said. “He sent it?”

Cassian nodded. “I think so. But we won’t be able to get it from Guerra unless you come with us.”

Jyn put both her fists on the table, staring hard at the scratched wood. Her necklace hung past her throat, spinning in a slow, pensive way that seemed almost taunting.

“It’s deja vu,” Baze rumbled. “They sure know how to use people, don't they?”

Which wasn’t helpful in the least.

“What do you think?” she asked, turning to Chirrut.

“I feel as though I’ve just been snubbed,” Kay muttered loudly, which she ignored.

Chirrut braced both hands on the top of his staff, clearly in thought. “I think…that our friends have come to us seeking help. I think that we ought to lend our assistance, in whatever ways we can. The Lord will provide, in His way.”

Jyn inhaled. “It’s not _His_ way I’m worried about,” she said, but looked back to Cassian. “Fine. We set off for Lyon tomorrow,” she said. “We’ll just have to wait out tonight.”

“Yes ma’am,” Chirrut said, and she detected a note of support, if not complete approval.

As Jyn turned away, she heard Kay say to Cassian, in what was clearly a half-hearted undertone: “Well, _that’s_ not how we expected it to go.”

* * *

Cassian didn’t sleep. There were snores in the vast underground space. They’d been moved from the small room at the back of the church, returned to the crypts, further into the network of chambers. The walls and floors bore signs that it had been used before as a shelter, cleared of dust and cobwebs and stacked with supplies and bedding. Clearly people — clandestine operatives, to be exact — passed through Saint-Quentin with frequency, and they’d been prepared for it.

The exposed grates were boarded up, shielding them from the weather, but the stone itself was cold enough on its own, drawing warmth that the small fires and scattered candles couldn’t make up for.

Discomfort was minimal, as far as what could have been. Still, Cassian didn’t sleep. Churches always seemed to whisper, to _echo_ to him, somehow. Filtering out what he didn’t want to hear had never been something he could just do. It was why he observed, remembered things for later use, to the point that sometimes he wondered if he’d been born for deception, for sabotage, but by the time he was old enough to ask the question, anyone who might have answered him was gone. His parents, his brother, sisters…all gone.

His shoulder was paining him, unaffected by the sedating drugs he didn’t want to take, so he lay awake, half-sitting against the wall to keep his weight off his injury. He watched the low-burning firelight cast shadows along the rough ceiling, listening to the church stones whisper beneath his head, drowning out the snores and sounds of breathing from the living.

Jyn wasn’t anywhere in the room. She’d gone to keep watch, maybe to work, maybe out onto the streets again, to return with the dawn. Members of her circuit were always waiting to tell her something, to report, to assist. It was more than clear that Jyn didn’t need him, not that she ever had. She’d been forged to be independent, and it showed during her training, her subsequent missions — now more than ever.

There was a soft scrape of stone, and Cassian’s hand went to the gun hidden beneath his bedding, his finger touching the trigger, palm curling around the grip…

Jyn came into view, and he relaxed. She had a bundle in her arms, bedding and something else, but she lingered to check on the others in the chamber, passing down the middle before she made her way towards him.

She crouched in front of him, and Cassian met her gaze. Questioning, in his own way, maybe even just a little wary. Not because she was a danger to him. No, she was angry — Jyn was built for emotions like bright, strong rage and crushing grief — but not at him. All Cassian wanted to know was if she meant to linger.

“I brought you another blanket,” she said, careful to keep her voice low, conscious of waking the others. “I thought you’d be cold down here.”

It was a small gesture, but to Cassian, it was a sign that she’d remembered. He was always careful to dress warmer, and was usually the one most in discomfort because of the cold. He took the offering with a murmured _thank you_ , and she shifted to sit parallel to the wall behind his back, a sterile medical kit at her knee.

Cassian used his chin to point at it. “What’s that for?”

Jyn gave him a look. “You got hurt in the crash, didn’t you?” she said, pulling suture and thread from the case. “Let’s see it, then.”

“How do you know that?” Cassian shifted so that she could set a candle into a ledge near his elbow, a sign that she clearly wasn’t about to wait for his permission to start stitching. She’d spent too much time around Baze and maybe even Kay, to some extent.

“Kay told me.” She twitched her hand, gesturing for him to turn. “Besides, it doesn’t look like even you can contort _that_ far.”

Cassian wondered if Kay mentioning it to Jyn (rather than insisting he take over the treatment himself) was some kind of heavy-handed scheme to discourage further wasting of time, but refrained from voicing the thought out loud. Instead, he unbuttoned his overshirt and pushed the collar back, letting Jyn do the rest. She undid the gauze meant to stop the bleeding and he heard a wet unsticking noise when the dressing peeled away from his flesh.

“Glass?” she said.

Cassian rolled his neck at the first bite of the needle. “Must have landed on it,” he said, staring at the spidering cracks in between the stacked stones. “It’s not bad.”

“You and I have very different definitions of _bad_ ,” she said, continuing to pull thread through the torn flesh, slowly, steadily closing the injury. Her knuckles were pressed lightly at the nape of his neck, using it to anchor her movements and to hold him still.

“You didn’t have to help,” Cassian said, turning slightly. She wasn’t looking at him, intent on her work.

Jyn made a noise under her breath. “This is me returning a favor,” she said, and her eyes flicked towards his jaw. “Sorry I kicked you.”

Cassian laughed, sudden and a little too loud. One of the sleepers near him stirred, rolling onto his back, and he fell silent, looking at the wall again. “I have one of those faces,” he said, not quite thinking at all.

Cassian’s hands were on either side of him, and he was well aware that they were far from being alone. But it was a measure of privacy, knowing the others were deeply asleep, worn out to the point of exhaustion.

When they’d been far away and distant, Cassian remembered having a score of questions he’d wondered of Jyn, but now when they were this close, and looking for things to say, he found that he couldn’t remember them.

Except one, maybe the only one that mattered. _Her_.

“How are you?” he asked, finally.

Jyn’s hands went still, and she lifted her head. “Surviving,” she answered.

It was a simple answer, as minimalist and guarded as Jyn had always been. But Cassian understood it, for what it was. “Han’s smuggling for the _milieu_ now, did you know that?”

If Jyn thought the sudden change in conversation was strange, she didn’t show it. “He might have mentioned the Desilijics,” she said. “I told him he’s going to get himself killed.”

Cassian nearly smiled. “He said it was either going to be you or me.”

Jyn hesitated, just for a second. “You saw him?”

Cassian wondered at it, wondered things he had no right to be curious about, not with the way they’d left things off, which was to say goodbye as though they might never meet again. Even now, he wasn’t so sure that it would last. Not really. They were too careful of each other, too wary of stirring things that couldn’t be put back in place, smoothed over and ignored.

“He helped me get in touch with a contact,” he said. “The one who told us about the defector.”

“Informants,” Jyn muttered, finishing off the last suture. “Of course. You planted them with Saul.”

“Of course.” Cassian echoed her words, pulling his shirt back on. “Thank you.”

Jyn brushed aside his thanks. “Aren’t you worried I’m going to tell him?” she asked. “I might, you know.”

Cassian considered it. “Trust goes both ways,” he said, and watched her expression shift.

But a second later she’d ducked her head again, rubbing a spot behind her neck. He could see the frayed ends of the leather cord, her necklace of white crystal. A rare and strange unearthly possession.

To suit its owner.

“It suits you,” he remarked. “Being here.”

Jyn narrowed her eyes slightly, like she wasn’t sure whether it was a compliment. “I’m turning out more like Saul than I thought,” she said, cynical to a fault. “Then again, I suppose I wasn’t raised for much else.”

“You don’t think he’d be proud?” Cassian let his head rest against the stone again, and Jyn watched him. “I imagine he raised you to lead.”

Something in her expression twisted at the word _lead_ , a personal conflict that made Cassian curious. “You don’t like that word,” he guessed.

“Some kinds of leading forget that everything has a cost,” she said. “If I led everyone here the way Saul does, I’d have to assemble myself a new team every week.”

It sparked an image in his mind, then, of a young girl — eleven, twelve — watching faces pass in a blur, gone too quick to form any kind of attachment, or to bother trying. Too many dead, for someone her age. But it was naive to think that these missions, especially hers, were the kind that everyone could walk away from.

“Everything does have a cost,” Cassian said. “You’ll never win the war if you try to protect everyone. I wish it worked that way — I really do — but it doesn’t.”

“I’m not trying to win the war,” Jyn said, a little sharply now. “Like I told you, I’m just surviving.”

“Saying that doesn’t make the reality less true.”

They stared each other, very nearly glaring. Two people in a strange, tangled relationship. Not lovers, not really, but with too much between them to pretend they were just friends, colleagues, comrades. It should have been simple, knowing that she felt the same way — at some point, anyway — and so had he. Still.

“All right.” Cassian didn’t press the point, and dragged his gaze from her face, bright with challenge. “So you’ve spoken to Saul, then.”

“Not in person. He moves around too often for that, and most times I can barely get away here.”

Cassian exhaled, long and slow, and shook his head in thinly veiled frustration. “It’s happening all over again,” he said, nearly incredulous. “Might as well be two years ago.”

Whether the tiredness showed on his face, even plainer than he’d meant, Jyn looked down at his hand, and after some consideration, took it in her own, balancing his weight against hers. Cassian let his fingertips curve against the inside of her wrist, tracing the hidden blue lines of her veins. Her cheek was on her knee; she was looking down at their hands like they were words being drawn in the sand.

“You’re tired,” she said.

It didn’t even occur to Cassian to deny the observation, and he closed his eyes, briefly, like her gaze was the warm sun on his face. “Yes,” he admitted.

Her grip tightened, just a little. “You could have come away with me.”

Cassian shook his head, and when he opened his eyes she was looking right at him, at once questioning and concerned and something else, with the kind of intensity that only she could manage in lieu of words. “No, I couldn’t have. Because all the things that I’ve done, things that would make anyone a murderer, a liar, a…a _monster_ , that’s all it would ever be — if I wasn’t a soldier fighting for a cause. I have no family, and all my friends —” a brief sardonic smile there, as though he was remembering what she’d muttered about him only having Kay “—are right here, fighting. If I stay, I have a chance to make…all this…mean something. So no, I couldn’t have.”

_As much as I might have wanted to_ was the subtext, and Jyn might have caught it, since she didn’t let go. Instead, she ducked her head, brushing a curl behind her ear, as though she was thinking of what to say.

“Is this what I have to look forward to, then?” she asked, matching him for irony.

“No,” he answered, leaning his head against the wall.

“How do you know?”

He shrugged. “I just do. You’re not like me, Jyn.”

_That’s why_ _there’s still redemption for someone like you_.

The thought wasn’t one he preferred to share, but Jyn breathed out, quietly, like her mind was far, far away too. “I don’t think we should pick up where we left off, do you?” she asked, quietly.

Cassian felt a dark, bitter smile on his lips. “We didn’t leave off anywhere.”

They looked at each other again, and Jyn began to pull away. She got back on her feet with a whisper. “We never do,” she answered, but brushed his cheek with her palm before she turned, and went the way she’d come, leaving Cassian staring after her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooohooooo. Reunion! Now we're just missing Bodhi but I PROMISE he's on the way. Or they're on the way to him.


	24. All Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big chapter this week, guys. BRACE YOURSELVES.  
> I'm kidding. It's not really.

Bodhi felt empty. Like his insides had been taken out, unspooled, and messily put back again, like sawdust stuffing from a leaking doll.

But nothing felt _right_.

Memories tumbled from his mouth, loose and clumsy, answers to questions he could barely recall, not when his mind seemed too scattered to hold anything for long. He didn’t feel like himself, not anymore, and Bodhi didn’t know if he could. Not again.

Bodhi curled up against the dusty floor, shielded by the dark (he took refuge in it now, the cool, unfeeling dark) and in the same way he’d take stock of his plane, went through the parts of him — mind and body, but mostly mind — to see what was still working. Movement — he could flex his fingers — sound — he could still croak — reflexes seemed intact — though they seemed primed to flinch at the sound of anything heavy touching the ground.

He flinched now, bringing his hands up to shield his head as though he was about to be struck. Though they hadn’t hit him, not really. They’d just pried his skull open to look, not for the truth, but for what they were willing to believe was true, sifting through his private memories as though they were paintings in a gallery, up to be sold, up to be scrutinized.

There was a noise, and Bodhi twisted away as light expanded to fill the small, dark cell. Coarse hands grabbed him by the arms and hauled him upright, and he didn’t resist — because what was the point, really? — when they dragged him to his destination. He was still like a doll to them, all right to bump carelessly on ledges and door frames, stub his feet on uneven floors…

Stairs. This was different. He was being brought up a flight of stairs. In a moment of irrepressible curiosity, Bodhi looked around. It was still the same, dusty place, walls of the same stone, faces of the same unfriendliness and voices with the same indefinable cluster of accents…

Why was he being taken upstairs?

Bodhi had a brief image of being pushed from the rooftop, because they were done with him. Finished. It was a thought that should have terrified him, but didn’t — not really. Flying might be pleasant, feeling the air rush past his face and arms flung wide, a moment of pure freedom before the last, fatal —

_No_ , Bodhi thought, wrestling away the dark creature of an impulse. No, that wasn’t right. He couldn’t be done, not yet. This was only the beginning, not for their purposes, but for his. He’d made a promise.

Bodhi blinked. “P-pilot,” he whispered, and someone growled at him to stay quiet.

_Pilot_.

It was a word nearly worn clean smooth, like a stone rubbed so often that it had become like marble, a statue polished for good luck until it shone.

_That’s you_ , said a voice he was starting to recognize as Galen’s. _You’re the pilot_.

Galen was a reminder of his sanity, however tenuous it still clung because of what they’d done to him, because it was linked why he couldn’t stop, not now. He had to wait, until the message — until it — what?

The message had been meant for Saul. It was addressed to Saul. Galen had risked everything for him to hear it.

Only Saul wasn’t listening.

_Galen’s daughter_.

The old Resistance leader’s reaction when Bodhi had mentioned her, a girl whose name Bodhi couldn't even put to a face… _Lyra_ , her mother. Galen, her father. The girl herself…maybe the name had hurt too much to say, with all its uncertainties as to whether she still lived.

Would it be wise, to tether his sanity, his remaining shreds of hope (a silly, dangerous word) to Galen Erso’s mystery of a daughter? Whether she still lived?

Would it destroy him if he learned that Galen’s message — the last fragments of his soul, of a chance to end this terrible, nightmarish war — would die in the hands of a man not entirely sane?

The door opened to a distorted, crackling echo of Galen’s voice. “ _Saul, if you are listening to this, then perhaps there still remains a chance to end the war — a hope that I might explain myself, to J_ —”

The message cut off with a snap as a shape whirled, leonine and wild, and Bodhi realized that Guerra was watching him, the same way an animal looked when its young was threatened. Bodhi felt panic stir inside his chest, because to be looked at like that by someone, least of all someone as dangerous as Saul Guerra, was to be in danger.

Guerra slowly raised his remaining arm — wasted away, but still a threatening sight — to gesture at a chair, and Bodhi was pushed into it, with guards waiting behind, a threat that didn’t need to be voiced.

Guerra studied Bodhi with his yellowed, bloodshot eyes, the truth of his decaying health written on his skin.

Bodhi’s throat unclosed. “So you — you’ve listened to it,” he said, in the silent room. “The message. G-Galen’s.”

Still, Guerra didn’t speak.

“He’s counting on you, monsieur — monsieur Guerra,” Bodhi said. “There’s no one else. I’ve told you, there’s no one else Galen trusts to help him.”

Guerra’s cat eyes flicked towards Bodhi’s guards, and he jerked his head once. “Leave us,” he said.

They didn’t even hesitate to obey his order. It was either something close to brainwashing, the same way he’d seen fresh recruits look, or out of confidence that the man could kill Bodhi himself if he took so much as half a wrong step.

Guerra’s staff struck ground, slowly, and Bodhi flinched.

“This is Galen’s voice,” he said, in a tone that could have been either a question or a plain statement.

If it was a question, it was one Bodhi had already answered. With the strange drug in his veins, compelling him to spill his secrets.

“Galen recorded it at — at great risk,” he said. “He’s being watched. There’s always someone watching. He — he’s smart, but it was — _is_ — still dangerous.”

Guerra seemed to have lost interest, or maybe it was because he’d already heard it all once before. “It cannot be,” he whispered, gripping and ungripping his heavy stick. His crutch. “I cannot bring — here of all places — a trap — happened once before…I cannot bring her here. Not again.”

_Her?_

“M-monsieur Guerra?” Bodhi whispered, but Guerra didn’t seem to hear.

“If I don’t…then,” Guerra murmured to himself. There was sweat on his skin, and he appeared to be in the midst of a great personal conflict. “If I do…yes.”

Bodhi scanned the room for signs of what might be causing Guerra to act like he was alone, speaking to nothing, voices that weren’t there. On a table, a wine bottle and untouched cups, but not enough to make him think that Guerra was drunk, inebriated. A glimmer on the table, syringes — he almost shrank away then, the chair legs scraped, moving half an inch back.

They looked…used. But not on him.

Bodhi faced Guerra again, this time looking at the way his veins seemed to stand out beneath the skin, like cracks in dry and crumbling stone. Sick, failing. The opiates — barbiturates — whatever Guerra was putting in his body, it wasn’t to lose himself. It was to prolong whatever there was left of a life already spinning towards its inevitable end.

So Galen wasn't the only one running low on time.

“Spies. Lurkers,” Guerra said, in a whisper. His gaze swept the room, wide-eyed, alert. “Liars. Traitors. Assassins. Cowards.”

“M-monsieur Guerra?” Bodhi said, uncertainly, and Guerra’s gaze darted back to him.

“Which are you, Herr Rook?” he asked, and a wave of cold shivers washed over him again.

Galen’s daughter was their only hope. She had to be alive, or all of it was for nothing.

_Whoever you are, please,_ Bodhi thought to himself, and to anyone, anyone who might be listening. _Please come._

* * *

The train rattled through a countryside stained the color of blood, awash with reddish-orange, green forests and fields of grass made to look like they were ablaze.

“Your newspaper, mademoiselle,” said a voice.

Jyn looked around, as though in surprise. “Oh. Thank you so much, monsieur.”

Kay put his hat back onto his head after a polite greeting, and moved on. The train eased into the station a short while later, and when Jyn made her way towards the door, he gave her a nod.

They both emerged into the station, anonymous in the crowd. The chill was immediate, clashing with the hot steam from the train engines for supremacy. Jyn pulled her scarf around her head, leaving the ends to trail at her sides like wings, and she put her arm through the crook of his, as though they were a couple entering the city for a regular day.

“Right. Rendezvous point is two streets from here, there’s a less than ten percent chance that we’ll end up followed,” Kay said, as though it was meant to help.

“Oh, I’ve not missed this,” Jyn muttered.

A bead of sweat rolled down the side of her face, vanishing past her neck and into the collar of her blouse. It was made of a fine, light fabric, light enough to make her uncomfortable. Tense surroundings made her strangely contradictory; she liked the weight of something, a weapon, thick clothing meant to insulate and shield, but she liked to feel weightless, light as a ghost and as easy to vanish.

Lyon _was_ tense, no doubt about it. The old city had the air of a lidded pot and building steam, a too-tight space and a clash of opposing forces, a place about to explode. Walls were slashed with _V_ -signs too loud and prevalent to completely erase, like weeds growing back twice as dense after being uprooted. The Nazis had taken instead to hiding them with posters of the wanted, criminals and saboteurs and political opponents alike. Jyn spared only a second for the poorly-rendered sketch of _Lyra_ , an agent wanted for treasonous acts and dangerous behavior, with a price of two million francs for information leading to an arrest, five million for her head.

Jyn’s stomach squirmed in light hunger, reminding her that she hadn't had much to eat since she'd boarded the train that morning, which led to the morbid thought that five million francs would buy plenty of Camembert and pâté. She turned her head slightly, looking past the scarf she’d wrapped around her hair without appearing as though she was. It hid her profile, made her anonymous, and the cold gave her a good reason to use it.

“Your handiwork, I assume,” Kay said. Clearly the posters hadn’t escaped his notice.

“We all had to keep busy,” she answered. “I don’t see _your_ head being held up for a reward.”

“I’d be very bad at my job if it were,” he said.

Jyn made a noise under her breath. “Just like old times,” she said. “You never agree with me.”

Kay grunted. “Am I going to have a problem with you, Miss Erso?”

“No,” she said, and flashed him a dangerous smile. “You’ll be dead long before you realize there’s a problem.”

Kay snorted. “I hope you extended that courtesy to Cassian.”

Jyn looked at him, considering the question she wasn’t sure she wanted — or needed — to ask, not really. “Cassian’s all right, isn’t he?” she asked. “He seems…tired.”

“ _Tired_.” Kay didn’t seem to be surprised at all. “There aren’t a lot of restful nights, doing what we do. I told you once that I want him to dream, but now I’m not so sure he can. Or if he wants to. It takes a toll, you know.”

“Yes,” Jyn said, because she did know.

“I don’t know if you’d have been able to do anything about it, Miss Erso,” Kay said, very nearly reading her thoughts with accuracy. “In fact, given what Cassian and I were sent to do over the last two years, I doubt very much that having you there would have helped at all.”

“He should have run,” she said. “He should have disappeared.”

Kay made a sound under his breath that might have been a snort. “We both know he’d never do it,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I think Cassian stopped being good at abandoning things after he met you.”

Jyn didn’t have very much to say to that at all, and she reached for the door, pulling it open to a dusty courtyard. “Down here,” she said, and pushed her way into a dark cellar.

* * *

The circuit had been hollowed out in Lyon. Cassian could tell, when their only safe meeting space — one of the few left — had been reduced to a cellar underneath a block of apartment buildings. The map was now on a crate, illuminated by guttering candlelight, and they all gathered around it.

“So what’s the plan?” he said. “Where’s Guerra?”

“I don’t know,” Jyn said, simply.

They stared. In contrast, Baze seemed not to be bothered by this information, and neither was Chirrut. “You knew?” Kay asked them, bordering on crossing his usual level of indignation.

“Didn’t take a genius to figure out that Guerra’s lying low,” came Baze’s laconic answer. “Listen to her.”

Jyn inclined her head in thanks, while Cassian shook his at her. Even though it did bring back a memory of another time, when he’d more or less done the same thing, trying to find Guerra in Nantes, on lockdown and a small war zone of its own.

“What’s your plan, then?” he asked.

“I may not know where Saul is, but I know how he operates. He targets Germans like so — three to a team,” she explained, using a street on her map as an example. “One distracts the incoming German, the other remains at the end of the street, while the last gets in close to take the fatal shot. If we can pin down one of his fighters, I can speak to him, and convince him to show us where Saul is. The only issue here is —”

“We can’t use an actual German, that’s too risky,” Chirrut said.

“Exactly.” Jyn surveyed the others, her arms folded. “So shall we pick who gets to play the part?”

Cassian turned gingerly to face Kay, who looked irritated and vengeful in equal measure. “Oh, jolly good.”

* * *

Sounds from the street drifted up towards them, mingling with the scents of cooking and the somewhat unsavory odors of a highly populated city with more important things to worry about than prompt waste disposal. Or waste disposal at all.

Jyn checked her gun out of reflex, bent low so she wouldn’t be seen. The German officer’s uniform stood out in the crowd, and she could track Kay just by watching from afar, watching as he circled the route, drawing attention to his status — and the fact that he was alone. Easy bait.

Jyn hadn’t told anyone from Saul’s faction that she was coming. They moved so often that without the occasional courier to tell her where they’d since relocated, it was as easy to pin down her old mentor as grasping smoke with her bare hands. Which, she supposed, was the point, and the reason why he’d stayed alive when Resistance member after Resistance member — leaders especially — had been rounded up by the Gestapo and never heard from since.

To make things worse, the Lyon circuit, the division of F-section actually _meant_ to stay as a permanent fixture, had been all but rounded up just weeks before. There was a rumor that their leader’s screams could be heard from the Gestapo prison, because Hitler’s chosen command, nicknamed the Butcher of Lyon, had made it his personal mission to make sure he gave up the Resistance’s secrets.

The thought made her stomach twist, but there was nothing she could do, and it wasn’t why she’d come.

_We can’t divert from the mission. I’m sorry._

_How can you be like that?_

_I haven’t been the one keeping my head down and avoided forming an allegiance to anything and anyone except myself._

A dark, bitter smile tugged at Jyn’s mouth, the kind of cynical look that might have come onto Cassian’s face at a confrontation with her, the difficult new operative questioning his methods.

It’d taken her two years to stand in his shoes, and now her response was _it’s not that simple_ , even though in her heart of hearts she knew that it should have been. People who risked their lives for their countries deserved _not_ to be left to die, to be given more than just the promise that if they kept their silence for forty-eight hours — an excruciating eternity with a hot poker laid against one’s bare spine and having fingernails yanked out with painstaking slowness — the other agents would have the chance to get away safe.

Jyn could expect the same if she was captured, to hold her tongue for two days, hoping, but likely never knowing, if Baze and Chirrut and Renault and Marie-Elise and a dozen others had made it to safety, before they put a bullet in her head or tightened the noose around her neck until her toes stopped twitching. Or worse, and there was always the possibility of _worse_ with the Gestapo.

Jyn gave her head a small, determined shake. It was bringing up old memories, walking into a city that felt like it was close to the breaking point, with hostile spies all around and not knowing where her allies were, even though she had a mission. Except this time, she was keen to be gone, and soon.

“You should have told me.” Cassian was on his stomach, looking through a hole in the plaster with a pair of binoculars.

“Told you what?” she asked.

“That you didn’t have Guerra’s precise location,” he said. “And that your plan to find it involves risking one of our operatives.”

Jyn turned her head and watched the street again. “You never shared your plans until we were in Nantes.”

Cassian didn’t back down. “I was your commanding officer, and I am now. It’s your responsibility to tell me.”

“Even if the risk is worth taking anyway?”

“That’s not your call to make,” he said slowly, like she needed to understand. “You were in charge in Saint-Quentin, and you did things your way, but now you’re back in Rogue team. That means something.”

Cassian hadn’t used the word _subordinate_ , but he didn’t need to. “I know exactly what it _means_ , Captain,” Jyn said, in a tone meant to make him flinch.

He didn’t, and they stared at each other, neither one giving up ground. Cassian just chose to walk away first. “They’re following him,” he said, stowing the binoculars into his pack. “Time to go.”

* * *

Jyn felt the hard edges of her silent resentment, sitting somewhere low in her stomach like a lead stone. It had been a long, long time since she’d been a subordinate working in a team, and for all she still remembered about Cassian and Kay’s mode of operations, the reminder that she was meant to listen to orders — _their_ orders — rankled.

No. That wasn’t fair of her. Everyone was frustrated. Tense. Trying to evade notice, and by that, capture. They’d all risked their necks by diving straight into the heart of danger, and it was on a plan that Jyn had devised.

Even Kay, wearing a target on his back for someone he famously had reservations about. As much as Jyn sometimes relished the thought of wringing him by the neck, she didn’t want him shot in a stolen uniform, left to die in the middle of a French city that wasn’t home.

Maybe he’d extend her the same courtesy.

Saul’s circuit may have hidden their location well, but Jyn knew how they worked. Three to a team. Small, compact, easy to organize and easier to disperse. None of the would-be assassins carried weapons with them — too risky, in case they were stopped and searched — so they used handlers. Mothers with prams, children — _children_ — with violin cases. Innocuous packages for ugly weapons.

Jyn heard the familiar rattle of a can, and the heavy _thunk_ of a wooden staff. A hooded beggar, sitting on the dirty pavement, holding out a battered can for begging. She glanced down at the contents of the can as she passed —

Two coins.

His staff tipped briefly towards a woman making her way off the street, rolling a pram in front of her. A narrow-shouldered man in a brown coat was splitting off from her path, a newspaper clutched under his arm.

He’d been given his weapon.

_Thank you, Chirrut,_ she thought silently, keeping the brown coat in her sights as she made her way through the steady stream of people. Part of Kay’s route was through a quiet street on purpose, and all Saul’s circuit would need was twelve feet of space, even less to make the shot.

Three to a team. One at the front to cause a distraction. One to keep the back of the street clear. One to make the kill.

Jyn could see them now. At the far end of the street, a figure tipped forward as if by accident, spilling newspapers onto the cobblestones. The breeze picked them up, carried them like fallen leaves, whipping the sheets up and around with perversely playful abandon.

“ _Mademoiselle_.” There was a voice at her back, politely inquiring, trying to keep her from going further into the kill zone. “Would you —”

He never finished, and Jyn glanced quickly over her shoulder to catch Cassian’s nod. He’d shoved the circuit member into a corner, his forearm at his throat to cut him off from speaking.

Ahead, the one with the newspapers — the distraction — suddenly doubled over, clutching his arm. Jyn quickened her pace, and she was right behind them both, Kay and the man in the brown coat, when he reached into the newspaper as though for the hidden gun —

Jyn grabbed his wrist and twisted, just as Kay whirled, neatly whacking the newspaper and weapon into the street. They backed their quarry into the alley and Jyn had her knife to his throat before he could speak.

He didn’t have to, because what she saw spoke for itself.

The assassin wasn’t a man. A _boy_. Not more than fifteen, tall for his age, and dressed in clothes that might have been his father’s. Too big around the shoulders and chest, and threadbare from being mended, and mended again.

Saul was using children. Just as he’d used her, not that it had occurred to her at the time. She’d been his daughter, and she would have done anything.

Maybe even this.

“Christ, Saul,” Jyn muttered.

“I’m all right, in case you were wondering,” Kay said, picking the gun off the ground and putting it at the back of his belt.

“Wasn’t,” she answered, her attention still on her quarry. “I had you covered.”

“Poppycock. He had time to unlock the safety catch on his gun, and if I hadn’t batted it out of his hands, I’d be d—”

The boy chose this moment to try and struggle free of someone much smaller than he was, and Jyn redoubled her strength to press against the boy’s windpipe, cutting off his protest. “I need to see Saul Guerra,” she said in French. “It’s important that you bring me straight to him.”

The boy was too green to stop the flicker of recognition in his eyes. If Jyn had been Gestapo (and he had to have thought she was, helping a German officer), the game would have been over, then and there.

“You’re too young for this,” Jyn said, well aware that the number of years between them could have been counted using the fingers on one hand. “But I’m not Gestapo. I’m not German. I’m a friend.”

The boy was starting to struggle again.

“Jyn Erso,” she said, enunciating each syllable with precision. Reaching towards her collar, she fished out the leather cord and the white crystal glimmered from her fingertips. “I need to see Saul.”

The boy went still, his eyes wide.

Kay made a mildly derisive sound through his nose. “Glad to see _that_ hasn’t changed.”

* * *

The _traboules_ wound seemingly endless beneath the city of Lyon, passageway after passageway, narrow and unlit, a haven of uncertainty to anyone who wasn’t a local, maybe even not then. Cassian had only heard of them, but had never seen it with his own eyes. The entrances could have been from anywhere, leading in from unobtrusive locked doors off side streets and alleyways, down into labyrinth tunnels underneath the city, handy escapes for when the Gestapo got too close.

Apparently, they were an even better hiding place for a rogue resistance faction at the heart of enemy territory.

It was almost impossible to see where they were going, and if it weren’t for the taps of Chirrut’s staff against the ground, Cassian wouldn’t have thought they were going in the right direction. For someone as large as Baze, he could walk as silently as a cat, and the only sound from Kay was the occasional scuffing sound of his boot against the dusty floor.

Jyn was slightly ahead of him, following their guide. “Told you it’d work,” she muttered, without turning her back.

Cassian quickened his pace slightly, and she shifted to make room for him, the two of them falling into step with each other as they walked. “That wasn’t the point,” he answered. “ I would’ve backed you.”

_Trust goes both ways_. That familiar mantra with the two of them, people who weren’t used to giving anything more than the perfunctory, used to protecting themselves because there was no one else. Unaccustomed to leaving things to faith, and trust, and hope.

Jyn was silent for a moment. “I’m about to meet the pilot who says he was sent by my father,” she said finally, as though it was an admission.

Something important, and Cassian knew it was. “You’re worried it isn’t true,” he responded.

A slight shrug, betraying the depths of what it really meant. “What if it’s too good to be?”

A door was opening at the end of the tunnel, and Jyn squared her shoulders. “We’re about to find out,” Cassian said.

There was a flurry of movement before they’d even gotten through, and suddenly their group was surrounded on all sides by a rush of unfamiliar faces — viscerally, plainly hostile. Jyn could sense danger the same way an animal scented a hunter, only instead of running away, and her arm went up in a blur, leaving her handgun unflinchingly level between a faction member’s eyebrows.

Baze had done the same with the ones flanking him, scowling over the barrel of his rifle when they strayed too close to himself and Chirrut. Cassian’s gun was jammed against someone’s ribs, a boy who looked barely old enough to grow a beard, much less hold war weapons and run suicide missions with a fanatical resistance group.

His eyes had taken a second to adjust to the brighter surroundings, and he scanned the members of Guerra’s faction, gauging ages and experience and familiar faces. Trivett was gone, dead for a week in a basement prison belonging to Desilijic’s underground. He’d been a novice compared to what Cassian saw now. The men staying in the Lyon base had nothing adolescent about them, unlike the boys they sent out to kill German officers at their own risk. They were scarred and hardened, but it had a feel of a fortress being besieged by enemy forces on all sides, with soldiers huddled shoulder to shoulder behind the walls. Clearly, Guerra’s men were staying close to their last remaining stronghold.

What was left of them, anyway.

“This isn’t how Saul treats his friends,” Jyn said, to the man at gunpoint, who Cassian now realized was probably their lieutenant.

“Saul is the only reason why you aren’t dead,” he spat. “He’ll see you, but he won’t see them.”

Jyn didn’t blink. “They’re coming with me,” she said deliberately.

“Cassian,” Kay said, because like him, he was thinking of possible ways this situation would end if neither side stood down, and none of them helped the mission in the slightest.

And this _was_ a mission; all of them had to remember that.

“Jyn,” Cassian said, lowering his gun and returning it to his belt. “It’s all right. Go to Guerra. We’ll be fine.”

Jyn was smart, quick-thinking, more than capable of reaching the same conclusion as he and Kay had, but still she didn’t move, and Cassian knew it was because she _disliked_ — fiercely — the only option they were left with. Which was to play along. They were the equivalent of a diplomatic mission, and starting close-quarter gunfights wouldn’t get them the objective.

“ _Jyn_ ,” he repeated, and finally, the pistol moved.

“No harm comes to my team, are we clear?” she said. “Or I’ll kill you myself.”

The lieutenant didn’t smile, because Jyn had left no room for humor, not even the smallest hint of mockery. So he jerked his head, and Guerra’s men surged forward.

“Now _really_ ,” Kay said, in response to having his hands shoved behind his back.

“Off,” Baze grunted menacingly, but a shake of Chirrut’s head and the guns in their faces made him stay where he was.

They slammed Cassian back into the wall, and he knew better than to fight them, even though he could have. “Jyn!” he called, because she was being pushed ahead of them, her arms pinned at her sides.

The scarf fell back from her hair as she turned to look, and they stared at each other across a faction of uncertain allegiances, territory that was starting to feel as dangerous as a minefield.

There was something bright and unguarded in Jyn’s eye, something she let him see before she secreted it out of sight again, behind her armor.

It was a mission, but that wasn’t what Cassian wanted her to remember, not really.

Saul Guerra had changed, and Cassian used to think that the one thing he trusted about Guerra was his protectiveness of Jyn. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Guerra had gone rabid, and he was worried that would hurt Jyn most of all, seeing what her old mentor and adopted father had become.

_Be safe_ , he thought.

Jyn nodded briefly, and a heavy door slammed shut between their faces, leaving him to wonder what happened next.

* * *

Jyn climbed the steps with her guards, guards that she could have beaten and left unconscious if she wanted to. _Jyn Erso_ was a name that still meant something in Guerra’s faction, even though she could sense the cracks in the foundation. The smell of decay lingering around the fringe of the resistance, a lone island severed from its only allies, stuck in a city growing more hostile by the day.

There was no revolution or resistance left in Lyon.

Saul was using children and hideouts to delay the inevitable. To deny what he’d never mentioned in the messages sent to her through Han Solo. The Gestapo had to be closing in, and she owed him a visit, a face to face warning, at the very least. She was the only person who might convince him to save his own life, even if he was more interested in being a martyr.

Jyn felt a shove in her back every time she tried to turn her head to see more than just the stairwell going up, up, up. She heard voices in the different rooms, doors open and closing. The smell of cooking and unwashed bodies. Close and cooped together, waiting out a siege with no end in sight.

All for a man who was, and always would be, a legend.

There was a curtain hiding the rest of the stairwell, and the guards pushed her through, leaving Jyn to regain her balance. She straightened up, searching the room — murky with smoke and something else, sickly sweet like medicine — for signs of movement. The tables were covered with papers, some scorched and others stained. Cups lying on their sides, their contents long since dried to dust. Empty bottles, one that nudged her foot as she took a step forward.

The sound stirred something in the darkness.

“ _Jyn_ ,” came the raspy whisper. “Jyn Erso.”

If Jyn had been the type of person to start at a fright, she might have jumped now, at the alarming unfurling of a shadow that had been lurking at the corner of the room, so still that she’d mistaken it for a piece of the dilapidated furniture.

But a stick hit the dusty floorboards, and Saul appeared in front of her eyes.

Almost. Not quite.

Jyn felt the breath expire in her throat as she took him in, because it shouldn't have been possible, for two years to have made the differences she was seeing now. The streaks of silver in his beard and hair, more noticeable than ever, the yellowed, unhealthy tint to his eyes, the way he hunched slightly forward, dipping where his powerful spine used to hold him straight and fiercely tall. His arm…

That was the hardest to look at. A rough stump ending above where his elbow was meant to be, clearly the result of an accident, an accident he’d never mentioned. Missing limbs were the kind of injury common among the Guerra faction, along with burns and blast wounds. Signs of bravery, but also recklessness. Saul had been different. His scars were from battle, never accidents. He had been careful.

_Had._

She should have known. The faction — the resistance — the rebellion, had always been tied to Saul’s lifeblood, the shapeless, powerful _force_ that animated all human beings, only he had found a way to divert his into an intangible cause, keeping it alive as long as he was.

The decay made painful sense now, because Saul was sick.

Worse.

_Saul_ , Jyn thought to herself, and it came like a visceral stab of pain. _What have you done?_

The Saul she remembered might have touched her face, fondly and in greeting. But this scarred, cynical dreamer kept his distance, leaning on his scarred staff as a walking stick — a crutch — where he’d once used it as a weapon. “It’s been too long,” he said. “But why have you come, Jyn? I did not ask you to. I did not — I did not want you to come.”

_I did not want you._

It hurt Jyn, the bluntness of Saul’s admission, and she responded in kind. “Because I’d see this?” she said flatly, gesturing around the stuffy room. “What happened, Saul?”

Saul turned slightly, grasping at the edge of a table as he made his way around it. Jyn saw the glint of metal needles — syringes — from an open tin case. Medication, put in the hands of the patient.

“For the pain,” he said, sensing her gaze. “Some days, I cannot stand without it.”

Jyn moved towards him, but she stopped short of taking his arm. Forgetting, for a second, that there was only a gnarled stump where the rest of it used to be. “A doctor can help you,” she said. “I’ve seen bad amputations, if you —”

Saul waved his hand. “My arm does not pain me, dear one. It is —” his grizzled fingers found his belly “ — here —” now they were over his heart “— and here.”

Jyn fell silent, and Saul nodded. “Forgive me for not telling you, but I did not want you to risk your life, coming to see me.”

The child in her, the little girl who wanted to be loved, to be _wanted_ , to belong…she railed against his pragmatic acceptance, crying tears of anger and loss. The little girl she’d outgrown would have stayed at Saul’s bedside, tending to his every need, to make his last days on the earth as painless and sweet as they could be. She would have let him drift, into old stories and old, happier memories, the further away the better, as long as it would ease his passing.

But the lieutenant he’d trained, the soldier she’d become — the fighter — knew that a cold cloth on his forehead and the push of a syringe weren’t as important as what he’d lived for, what he continued to live for.

The Resistance.

Rebellion.

So Jyn helped Saul into a chair and knelt at his feet. His daughter, still, but steel and fire instead of softness and tears. “What can I do?” she asked.

Saul finally grasped her hand, and it was with a small push. Pushing her away. “You were not meant to come,” he said, his mood shifting abruptly. So quick that Jyn felt the sting of it, sorrow to anger in an instant. “Go! Go now! Away, child! The jaws are closing in — traps — a trick, it must be — it must…”

Jyn felt her heart sink, because this, Saul Guerra, frail and rambling — it was the last sign. It wasn’t just his body that was wasting away, corrupted by the drugs he gave himself to bear the pain, but his mind. His brilliant, passionate mind was slipping away too, and Jyn could see it.

So she stayed rooted to the spot, even when his arm — thinner now, but still equipped with wiry strength — beat a little too close to her face. “I came because I heard a rumor,” she said, because all she could do now, what she _knew_ to do now, was the mission, the one they both cared about.

Not De Gaulle, or Draven.

Her father.

“I heard a rumor about a German pilot, a defector,” she continued. “Saying he was sent by my father.”

Silence. Saul’s eyes had wandered again, drifting around the room as though they were tracking something that only he could see.

“Is it true, Saul?” Jyn asked, willing the hope from her voice, because she couldn’t bear to be wrong, not again. “Did my father really send him?”

She waited, but still, Saul seemed to be in another world.

“ _Saul!_ ”

He turned again, suddenly, a spark flashing in his eyes that bore some resemblance to his old lion-like stare, and they looked at each other for what felt like the first time.

“Galen,” Saul said in wonderment, and Jyn wondered if he was seeing his old friend, her father, in her eyes. Blue, green, and a little bit of brown.

The same eyes.

Saul’s hand vanished into the folds of his tattered cloak, reaching for something kept close to his chest. “The pilot,” he said.

Jyn stared at the object he’d retrieved. Two steel disks encircled with rounds and rounds of dull black tape.

“This came for you,” Saul whispered, laying it gently into her hand as though it was a wounded bird. “It was meant for you all along.”

“What is it?” she asked, uncertain of his sanity, what little of it remained.

Saul sighed, and she heard the telltale rattle of a man on his last days of life. “A message.”

* * *

“Well, isn’t this just splendid,” said Kay.

His voice echoed strangely inside the pitch-black space, a windowless underground cell with cast iron doors and no conceivable way out.

In theory.

Escape was a second priority, and only necessary if it looked as though Jyn would be kept from seeing Saul Guerra. But clearly that hadn’t been the case, so now what they had to do was wait. Jyn would see him, try her best, and if Guerra refused — if his faction was to remain separate, outlaws on both sides — then she’d come back for them.

“This place is falling apart,” Baze said, from Cassian’s right. He’d chosen the corner closest to the door, sitting quietly with Chirrut. “We shouldn’t stay long.”

“The _traboules_ are old, but they’ve stood for centuries,” Cassian said, even though he knew what Baze meant, and it had nothing to do with tangible warnings like raining dust or visible cracks in the ceiling.

“I sense sickness,” Chirrut chimed in. “I fear Guerra will not be the ally we remember.”

None of this was making Cassian feel any more at ease about staying put. “All right,” he said. “We’re getting out of this cell.”

“With what, exactly?” Kay queried acidly. “They’ve taken our weapons, and even if we had them, the walls and that blasted door would send any bullet ricocheting the other way, with an eighty-eight percent chance of killing whoever it hits. _At least_.”

“There’s always something,” Cassian said, retrieving the kit from his boot that they hadn’t confiscated. “Baze?”

The man grunted in response, and something rapped against the wall. “Dynamite,” he said. “The door won’t hold if we blast it.”

“Neither will we,” Kay pointed out. “Are you mad?”

“I know what I’m doing, English.”

“I have a name, _Yankee_.”

“If we _are_ about to cause a small explosion,” Chirrut interrupted pleasantly, “I’d advise moving the young man out of the way first. He’s just to the left of the door.”

There was a prolonged pause in response to his words. “What?” Cassian said, getting to his feet. “There’s someone else here?”

“Indeed,” Chirrut said. “He was behind the door when we were brought in, so I imagine none of you saw him until the light was gone.”

“Well why the bloody hell didn’t you say so before?” Kay demanded.

There was a rustle, as though Chirrut had just shrugged. “Because he means us no harm.”

There was a shower of red sparks in the corner that made them all start, thinking it was dynamite, but Baze held a flare aloft in his gloved hand, rolling it to the center of the floor to light the cell.

Cassian looked where Chirrut had said, and sure enough, there was a figure huddled in the corner, so misshapen and silent that he never would have known it was human if the blind priest hadn’t told him.

“You’re sure he’s not dangerous?” Kay said, eyeing the lump warily.

“We can’t leave him here to get blown up,” Cassian said. “There’s no time to waste. We need to know what Galen Erso has to do with the defector pilot —”

He broke off, because the shape twitched visibly at the word _Galen_ , as though shocked with electricity. Now Cassian heard muttering where previously there had been silence, and the mass of dark fabric shifted, showing him two things —

First, a face. Young, too young to be huddled at the corner of an underground prison. Eyes too large for the rest of his features, and there was something about them, lit by the pale red glow, that said _fragile_ , if not outright broken.

Second, the crest on his arm. The scratched remains of a silver eagle. _Luftwaffe._

The pieces came together just as the cracked lips on the stranger’s face moved to form speech. “P-pilot,” he said, recognizing the word Cassian used in English. “G-Galen Erso. Pilot. Galen Erso.”

As usual, Chirrut was the only one not too stunned to speak. “I believe that would be him,” he declared.

* * *

Cassian stepped over the smoking door. They’d blasted the weakest part, the hinges, and all they really had to show for it in terms of injuries was a few bruises, maybe a burnt finger or two. The guards left to watch them in the underground prison were on the ground, disarmed and unconscious.

“Watch the doors,” he said to Baze.

Kay helped him move the pilot out into the light, setting him down with his back to the wall, because it seemed like he’d slump over without something to hold him up.

“What’s wrong with him?” Cassian asked, retrieving their weapons from the stash while Kay examined the German pilot.

“Not sure.” Kay didn’t meet much protest when he put his fingers to the boy’s neck to measure his pulse. “My guess is some kind of drug. Lord knows what they’ve been doing to him to extract intelligence, if the stories I hear about the Guerra faction are true.”

Cassian had his gun back at his belt, and made sure Kay had his weapons too, because his focus was still on the pilot. They were both studying him, and on Cassian’s part, at least, he was…unexpected. To be so young, for one thing — no older than Jyn. Taller than her, probably. But lean, shrinking further still as though he was wary of taking up too much space with himself. This was someone who’d dared to defect with his minimal age and experience, to make his way from the heart of German territory to occupied France, to survive a brutal interrogation by an extremist faction…

He didn’t even look German. Not the kind of German that Hitler, Himmler and Goebbels were keen to see dominate the earth. Not blond and broad and blue-eyed. If it hadn’t been for the tattered pilot’s jumpsuit, and the pair of goggles he clutched tightly between his battered hands like they were never to be let go, Cassian wouldn’t have assumed that he was a part of the _Luftwaffe_. Brown skin, dark eyes, black hair — part of some foreign expeditionary force, maybe. A reserve platoon sent over from Egypt, Morocco, somewhere dusty and hot.

Maybe being unexpected was what enabled this pilot to make it all the way here. To survive.

Cassian crouched in front of him. “What’s your name?” he asked.

The pilot didn’t answer, continuing to stare vacantly at the far wall, what little animation that returned because of Galen Erso’s name vanished from sight.

So Cassian tried again. It was coaxing intelligence out of a difficult source, nothing he hadn’t seen before. “Galen Erso sent you,” he said, watching for the spark again. “Why? What was your mission for Galen Erso?”

It worked. “P-pilot,” he repeated, his eyes darting towards Cassian’s face. His slender fingertips pressed against his own collarbone, a sign. “I — I was the pilot he sent.”

“Good,” Cassian said, aware that the others had fallen silent, letting him work. “What’s your name?”

“B-Bodhi.” The word slipped out like it was a mistake. “Rook. Bodhi Rook.”

“Bodhi,” Cassian answered. Calm and careful. “Why did Galen Erso send you?”

“M-message,” was the answer. “There’s — there’s a message. H-he told me that it could…that it could end the war.”

Baze whistled suddenly, calling their attention. Cassian looked around, annoyed to have his concentration broken, until he saw what Baze was pointing at. A cellar, just beyond the cells, containing identical crates, one of which stood open, showing them its contents.

“I thought they were stockpiling weapons,” Baze said, letting a handful of glittering fragments fall from his fingers.

White crystal. Kay got to his feet, his brow furrowed with rare confusion as he recognized it too. “Isn’t that Jyn’s —”

Bodhi flinched suddenly, his grip tightening around the goggles. “ _Careful_ ,” he hissed through his teeth, like he’d been scalded.

Cassian turned back to him. “Why?”

A shake of his head, vehemently, and silently. Chirrut’s staff tapped gently as he made his way over to the crate and carefully resealed the lid. “Because you were right, Baze,” he said. “They _are_ stockpiling weapons.”

Cassian felt a shiver of knowing. Châteaubriant. The blast. The vanished city. General Draven, livid that Guerra had been attacking enemy shipments of worthless junk. He counted the crates, silently. Two dozen of them, maybe more in other rooms.

“Cassian,” Chirrut said suddenly, and something in his voice made him look around.

Chirrut’s eyes were on the ceiling above them, as though he’d heard something the rest of them couldn’t. “Find Jyn,” he said. “They’re here.”

Cassian didn’t wait to be told twice. He was already racing for the door, the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. She would never have abandoned them, and he wasn't about to do the same to her. _  
_

* * *

Jyn had grown up around Saul Guerra, for all his changing moods and mercurial tempers, but it was one of the few times she’d genuinely asked herself if Saul was mad. Giving her a tape with an incoherent explanation, just that it was a _message_ …linked somehow to the German pilot, something _meant for her_.

All along.

Jyn fitted the tape into the machine under Saul’s watchful gaze, and depressed the switch that started the rotors inside the metal box whirring underneath her fingertips. At first there was only scratchy silence, seconds that seemed to drag on forever, making her question Saul all over again.

Then —

“Saul,” said an unfamiliar voice, clear and free of the distortions that came with radio transmissions. “If you are listening to this, then perhaps there still remains a chance to end the war. A hope that I might explain myself, to Jyn. If she still lives. If she’s still with y—”

Jyn whirled, staring at Saul in blind disbelief. Because this voice — the words — the wish that they’d come face to face again…

It was her father.

After all these years, it was Galen.

“Papa,” she breathed. “Papa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See?? No biggie :D  
> Also, it's taken close to 150,000 words but the team's all finally met! (Except Bodhi and Jyn, but it's on the way, people. Gimme a few more thousand words.)


End file.
